


Cinnamon and Thread

by daphnomancy



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Hydra (Marvel), Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Knifeplay, M/M, Mental Instability, Mind Control, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Psychological Torture, Sadism, Steve Rogers as the Winter Soldier, Torture, mind wipe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-15
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-09 09:38:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 34
Words: 93,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4343528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daphnomancy/pseuds/daphnomancy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“It hurts most the first time, but you get used to it,” Bucky whispered. Steve jerked at the sound; it was Brooklyn, it was 1939, it was Bucky. “Bucky!” he tried to scream through the gag, fresh tears coming down his face. “You’re strong though. You’ll make a good asset. I’ll show you.”</i>
  <br/>
  <i>“He’s secure,” Bucky said, voice toneless and mechanic once more</i>
  <br/>
  <i>The chair lowered and Steve was screaming through the gag, still thrashing against the restraints even harder. Something lowered over his head and pressed against his face. He could not even jerk his face away, he was held too tightly. He met Bucky’s eyes; desperate, terrified as he tried to tell Bucky everything, tried to convince Bucky to stop this through eye contact alone.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>The machine revved up under the chair. Bucky smiled down at him. Then all Steve knew was pain before darkness finally took hold of him. The last thing he saw was Bucky smiling. He looked the same.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Cinnamon and Thread](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6915100) by [DeiaS](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeiaS/pseuds/DeiaS)



> **New Update:** As of 7/31 (Happy birthday Harry Potter!), changed the rating back to Mature because AO3 says it's "Adult themes like sex and violence" so I guess I'm sticking with that. Just be advised it's Mature leaning heavily towards almost Explicit. 
> 
> This fic is gonna be good, old-fashioned, stress relieving grim-dark. Not as grim-dark as some, grim-darker than others. I just really love angst. Whoops. I will be adding warning tags as I post the chapters so please be aware that things will get worse for poor Steve. (Also, the 'Steve as the Winter Soldier' tag is VERY loose for this fic... I just couldn't think of one that fit better. Sorry!)
> 
> (Finally, there are several points where this fic (both already posted and coming up in later chapters) could take a HTP-esque turn, but I opted not to. I almost thought it would go that way when I first started but I got really invested in the plot, so... whoops. That being said, if you are interested in using this premise for an HTP fic, I would totally not object at all! Let me know! It'd be neat! (and terrible)

Steve slammed his elbow into Rollins’s face; kicked another Hydra agent so hard they crashed into the glass window; screamed feral and raw as he tried to claw his way out from the Hydra agents, one hand held immobile by the magcuff on the beam of the elevator. Something stabbed into his abdomen, and he screamed as the electric current of the stun baton coursed through him. He jerked away violently, kicking out, hitting nothing but air. Another shock from the baton had him grunting, body curling in on itself of its own accord, and he felt another magcuff click onto his wrist, dozens of arms pushing his hand up to meet the other. The magnet took hold and both of Steve’s arms were trapped above his head. He pulled with all his might and felt they might have had a little give, but not enough.

An agent lunged at him, and Steve wrapped his thighs around the burly man’s head; with a jerk of his hips the man’s neck snapped between his legs. Steve silently thanked Natasha for teaching him that trick. 

Hands on his body, fists to his face, the stun baton to his chest, his stomach, between his thighs.

“Give it up, Cap,” Rumlow whispered into his ear. Steve slammed his head to the side, connecting with Rumlow’s face, but he did not have enough leverage to cause any significant damage.

Steve bellowed and kept fighting; if he pulled hard enough he could break his thumb, pull a hand through the cuff.

The stun baton pressed against his neck, threatening, poised. Steve did not even care. He kicked out at whoever he could reach.

White light burned behind his eyelids when the stun baton went off right at his jugular. He could not even scream, could not even breathe. The muscles of his neck contracted as Rumlow held the baton against his skin far longer than Steve thought was possible, electricity bleeding through his body, lightning hot and acid-sharp in his muscles. There was no stealth suit to muffle the feeling, this was no quick burst of pain and then release.Steve could not remember ever feeling a pain like what was burning through his body now. A gasp of relief fell from his lips when it was finally over. He pulled his legs up to start kicking again, but they were lead-heavy and uncooperative. 

Something pricked his neck and he blinked and saw one of the agents pull a syringe away from him. He tried kicking out again, panic fueling him now as his mind slowly connected the fragments of thoughts he was left with after the stun baton.

Whatever was in the syringe was powerful; black crept around his vision as he futility kept trying to fight against the Hydra agents. He felt his lips spill out a soft _“No…”_ but his throat was too raw from the stun baton, and no sound came out. Some part of him from far away was grateful for that. The bastards did not deserve to hear him.

The sedative took hold, and the last thing Steve heard was the sound of laughter bouncing off the walls of the elevator, the last thing he saw was his shield laying facedown on the floor.

* * *

Steve woke up cold, ice seeping into his skin through the floor. He blinked and saw grey cement below his face, pressing up cold and damp against his skin. Steve began to take stock of himself as he pushed himself up to sitting, glancing around the room, made green by a sickly, flickering fluorescent light. He was shirtless, and only wearing a pair of thin pants, the cold cement rough and frigid against his skin and he could barely see; the dim lights left the room around him in shadow. It was odd, the room looked like an old bank vault; lots of small lockers lined the walls; there was a closet on one end, heavy cage doors at another wall. He could not make out anything outside the door though, as if another door beyond it was shut. It was a large room, and seemed even larger being so empty. All that was inside the room was a chair with machinery around, but otherwise it seemed empty.

The drugs were still in his system, Steve could still feel them hazy and heavy in his veins. He felt like he was being watched. He did not like the look of that chair.

Something rubbed against the raw skin of his neck, and he reached up and felt a small, hard box, held against his skin with thick, solid metal that pressed flush against his skin. _A collar._ He pulled at it, could not even get a finger underneath it. A sharp zap of electricity shocked him, awful pain still radiating in his skin even after it had finished.

“Collar doesn’t come off, Cap,” a familiar voice said into the room from a speaker. Steve jerked away and to his feet at the sound of Rumlow chuckling over his head, pushing himself into the corner alert and poised, hands clenching into fists in front of him.

“God fucking damn you, Rumlow!” Steve screamed up at the ceiling. 

“Soldier,” Rumlow continued, chuckling. “You have your orders; contain the new asset.”

“What—“

But Steve stopped himself. In the other corner of the room furthest from Steve there was movement; black on black shadow melting through the dark. A figure stepped into the light. He had been there the whole time and Steve cursed himself for not seeing him. He was almost as tall as Steve, muscled, black leather uniform, a metal arm glinting in the dim light. Fury’s murderer. A thrill of adrenaline, of fear, ran through Steve as he watched the killer step towards him. Steve froze in his sight, muscles tensing, bracing for the fight.

“Get in the chair,” the soldier said, voice muffled through the mask he wore.

Steve had to actively try not to roll his eyes. “The fuck I will,” he spat.

The soldier tilted his head, brow furrowing as he pulled a knife from a sheath on his leg. Steve’s jaw clenched. He was almost naked, still coming back from being drugged, defenseless, and there was nothing here he could fight back with. He could almost hear the voices of every rational person he had ever met telling him this was not a fight he could win, nor should he try to. He could hear his heartbeat thudding in his ears, thrumming at the tips of his fingers.

Steve never could back down from a fight, but even he knew he might be regretting this one.

He lunged at the soldier, and the soldier lunged back. Steve figured he had nothing to lose so he held nothing back, violently kicking and punching, throwing more weight behind each blow than he should have, but the soldier countered everything. It was like fighting a machine. Strike after strike, he caught as much damage as he was dolling out, possibly more; he could feel bruises forming under his skin, could almost hear his bones straining with the impacts.

The soldier kneed him between the legs, and the pain of it made Steve scream out, curling in on himself, as the soldier pulled the knife across the skin of Steve’s arm. The large gash burned his skin, and Steve jerked away once more The soldier took the opening and shoved Steve back into the wall. Steve’s head hit the cement hard; he could see stars for a moment before he began to scramble for purchase, for solid ground, striking at the soldier. He felt the tip of the knife against his throat, pressing under the collar. He did not care; he kept swinging, fist connecting with the soldier’s face. The knife drove in deeper, and Steve was almost ready for it to hit an artery; Steve was almost ready to die here, bleeding out into the cracks between the plates of the metal arm.

Steve heard a crackle, and the soldier jerked back clutching at his neck. For the first time Steve noticed he had a collar too. Steve stared, uncomprehending, shocked out of fighting for just a moment.

“You can damage the merch, Winter, but we can’t do anything with him if he’s dead. You know better than that.”

The soldier waved his hand, nodding easily. Before Steve could piece together what was going on, the soldier threw the knife away and was on Steve once more, a metal fist connecting with Steve’s face, sending him reeling back, seeing stars once more. Steve kicked out and fought back, screaming, desperately trying to gain the upper hand. Everything was hurting, his blood was still thick with whatever drugs they pumped in him, he could not fight as hard as he wanted. At one point he landed one, two, three solid punches against the soldier’s face, cracking the mask. Then the soldier pulled his arm, hard enough that Steve could feel his shoulder popping out from its socket, and threw Steve to the floor.

Steve’s hand connected with the soldier’s mask and he felt it pull from the soldier’s face as he fell to the ground, the plastic clattering against the cold cement as he fell face first onto the ground. He fumbled on the floor, scrambling to get away before the soldier was over him, pushing him onto his back, straddling his hips, holding his head by the hair, arm poised to start punching him once more when—

Steve looked at the soldier, but it was not the soldier staring down at him. The mask was gone. Steve would know that face anywhere. Those eyes, that nose, those lips; even twisted in the wicked snarl Steve knew who it was. After all, he really had only died a little while ago. It had been over seventy years. It was practically yesterday. Steve had watched him fall. Steve let himself knowing the man above him was dead.

“Bucky?” The word fell from Steve’s lips before he could stop them. His stomach flipped, air would not reach his lungs, his blood ran cold. “Bucky, what—“

The soldier blinked, brow furrowing. “Who the hell is Bucky?”

“B-buck—“

Another punch to the face, forcing his head to crash back against the floor hard; hard enough that Steve was sure he had lost time, blacking out for a moment or two. The soldier stepped off him, reaching down and pulling Steve by the hair and bad shoulder, dragging him across the concrete floor to the chair. Steve tried to fight, screaming in earnest now, kicking out, bare feet rubbing raw against the concrete. He saw blood trailing after him, not quite sure why he would notice that when there were so many more important things to worry about. But, all the same, he saw a thick line of blood smeared across the floor from the cut on his arm.

The soldier lifted him into the chair as if it was easy; how strong had Bucky gotten when Steve slept? How was this even possible? Steve kicked and screamed some more, and jerked his arms away as Bucky tried to strap him down to the chair. But he did not want to fight, he could not even think to hurt Bucky now. His very nerves were telling him to run away, into the corner, out of the room, off the planet; anything to keep from hurting Bucky who should not even be standing over him now.

“Want a hand?” said the voice over the speakers.

“Da.” Bucky replied, the shift in accent strange and harsh and so wrong against Steve’s ears.

Steve screamed as the collar at his neck went off again, electricity jolting through his body. It burned; it was burning so badly. Steve’s eyes squeezed shut as his muscles spasmed, and no matter how hard he tried he could not open them, could not look at Bucky.

Finally the pain was over, and Bucky started to strap him down as Steve tried to catch his breath. Thick metal and leather closed over his chest, then his arms and legs as Steve struggled to push away still.

“Bucky, stop— you don’t want to do this. Bucky, it’s me— you know me—“

Bucky peered down at him as he continued to work on the straps, tight leather cutting into Steve’s naked skin, harsh metal cold and unyielding. Steve watched him glance around the corners of the room before turning back to the straps and restraints.

“No, I don’t,” he replied.

“Bucky, please. It’s me—“

Bucky’s brow quirked and Steve almost sobbed because it was Bucky, that was Bucky’s face when Bucky was confused, or doing math homework, or looking up coordinates. _Bucky, bucky, buckybuckybukcy…_

“Don’t do this, don’t do this—“

“Begging will not help.”

“Bucky—“

Bucky slapped his face with the metal had, hard enough to jerk Steve’s head over to the side, wet tears splashing away off of his face and onto the cement floor. “Do not call me that.”

“Soldier, is he secure?” Rumlow asked through the speakers.

“Shock him again,” Bucky replied.

A fresh wave of pain burned through Steve, consuming agony. He screamed once more as Bucky calmly continued to tighten the straps on his body. When it was over, Steve could not help the whimper that fell from his mouth; his muscles spasmed under his skin, his body was shaking as much as it could under the tight restraints. This was not happening; he did not know what was happening, but it could not be real. He hated himself but he wished it was not real even if that meant that Bucky was dead. Bucky died, he was laid to rest—

“Bucky— please—“

Bucky shoved something hard and plastic into Steve’s mouth, leaning in close to Steve’s face. Steve whimpered once more, trying to pull away and trying to look at Bucky all at once, all of his burning muscles straining against the straps and the metal. Bucky lay a hand on Steve’s chest, over one of the thick restraints; his metal fingers brushing Steve’s bruised skin so lightly Steve was not sure if they were really there.

“It hurts most the first time, but you get used to it,” Bucky whispered. Steve jerked at the sound; it was Brooklyn, it was 1939, it was Bucky. _“Bucky!”_ he tried to scream through the gag, fresh tears coming down his face. “You’re strong though. You’ll make a good asset. I’ll show you.”

 _No, no, no, no_.

“He’s secure,” Bucky said, voice toneless and mechanic.

The chair lowered and Steve was screaming through the gag, still thrashing against the restraints even harder. _No, no, no!_ The machines were spinning in front of his eyes, a dark hum starting up underneath him. Something lowered over his head and pressed against his face. _“Bucky, please!”_ he kept trying to say, to scream. He could not even jerk his face away, he was held too tightly. He met Bucky’s eyes; desperate, terrified as he tried to tell Bucky everything, tried to convince Bucky to stop this through eye contact alone.

The machine revved up under the chair. Bucky smiled down at him. Then all Steve knew was pain before darkness finally took hold of him. The last thing he saw was Bucky smiling. He looked the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been Betsy. I [tumbl](http://batraquomancy.tumblr.com) if that's your thing.


	2. Chapter 2

_Please…_

He opened his eyes staring at a ceiling, there was a dim light at one side, casting a green pall into the room. 

Things loosened around his arms, as if his skin was being peeled off and dropped to the floor. He whimpered and tried to look down, but something was on his head, holding him still. Metal pressed into his face, tender with bruises. A voice in his mind was screaming, telling him to get away from here, wherever here was, he kept pulling, jerking against whatever was on his skin, his arms, his legs.

“Starting file, WS-Echo, designation Sentinel,” a voice said. A light flashed in his eyes and he flinched away. “Running preliminary tests. Wipe appears to be holding.”

“Easy there, pretty boy,” said another voice, chuckling. “Come on.” A hand ran through his hair, gloved and rough, firm against his scalp. A face came into his vision; a man, grizzled and grinning, dark hair just shy of greasy. He knew he did not like this man, but he did not know why. The man pulled a thick gag from his mouth; his jaw ached as he tentatively opened and closed his mouth.

Hands moved around his body, more than just one person’s now. He could feel them touching him, gloved, sterile, a needle in his thigh, something cold against his chest, something tight adjusting against his neck. A machine beeped nearby, erratic and fast.

He tried looking around the room, but the man snapped his fingers loudly in front of his face; he flinched, biting back another whimper and looked at the man once more, meeting his eyes.

“You are an asset of Hydra,” the man said. “I am your handler, Commander Rumlow. Do you understand?

He shook his head as much as he could against the restraints holding him down. “No,” he heard himself whisper. His voice was not supposed to sound like that, he thought. But it did, so that must be the way it sounds. He felt as though it used to be stronger, but could not say why.

“No, you don’t understand? Or no, you don’t accept?”

The man above him lifted something into his line of sight. _Stun baton,_ his mind supplied. He flinched, his whole body jerking as much as he could still held down by half of the restraints, machine beeping faster outside of his vision. He was shaking his head, he knew it was going to hurt, and he could not even remember what pain really was, but not this, not this _not this, no, no, no._

“Answer me? Do you understand?”

“I don’t understand,” he gasped out. He could barely hear himself. “Please, I don’t understand.”

“What don’t you understand?”

Everything. _Where am I? What’s happening? What’s an asset? Who am I?_

“What’s Hydra?”

The man above him grinned.

* * *

_You are an asset of Hydra, designation; Sentinel. You are training for the new world order._

He was helped out of the chair by gloved hands — _technicians,_ Rumlow said — and stepped gingerly onto the cold cement. It was drafty and damp. A slight breeze ran over his naked skin. He pushed himself up out of the chair, a small groan falling from his lips.

Rumlow took him by the jaw, “Status report. Are you injured?”

“He doesn’t know the protocol, Commander,” said a technician. “We haven’t done the base programming yet.”

Rumlow rolled his eyes, “Yeah, Pierce wants it that way. He’ll pick it up.”

He felt muggy, trying to piece together the commander’s words, and the aches in his body. It was sharpest on his left side. He raised his hand to touch—

“Are you injured?”

“My arm,” he said. He looked down, head heavy on his shoulders, and saw a red gash on his bicep, almost closed, surrounded by dried blood. “My arm is injured,” he answered.

“Does it still work?”

He flexed his fingers. The cut was only a small as if it had been healing for a long time. He did not know how long it had been. But his shoulder was radiating pain; feeling hot to the touch and tender. He lifted his arm up and down, and it moved even though it was agony to do so. 

“Yes,” he replied. His arm was still working, he could still lift it. Perhaps that arm was always in pain. He had nothing to compare it to.

“Are you injured?”

He blinked. Maybe he had not spoken clearly enough. “Yes?”

Rumlow flicked a switch on a small remote. He crashed to the ground as the collar around his neck gave him a sharp shock, his knees scraping on the cement. A scream tore through his throat. And as suddenly as it started, it stopped. He was curled over his knees on the floor, biting back a whimper.

“You are not injured until you’re non-functional. Blood-loss is only critical when you’ve lost more than 60%. Your body is not yours, it is Hydra’s. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” he whispered to the floor quickly. “Yes.” Anything, anything to keep Rumlow from shocking him.

“Get up. Let’s go, Sentinel.”

He stood up once more, legs shaky underneath him, the feel of cold cement still burning in his muscles, under his skin. He thought his uncertain legs would collapse underneath him as he stood, but even now his muscles were adapting back; pain was fading away as he moved. He did not want to follow Rumlow; he could feel that somewhere deep down inside of his mind. He wrapped his good arm around his stomach, glancing one last time at the chair.

Phantom pain surged through him, blinding white in his skull for a moment. He shuddered, staring at the chair, the machinery standing unmoving around it, the technicians tinkering with it, typing up notes. He felt like vomiting, but he could not remember why.

A small zap at his throat tore him from his thoughts. A buzz more than a real shock, but enough so that he jerked at the feel of it, almost colliding into the doorframe. “Keep up,” said Rumlow.

 _“Run.”_ another voice told him. _But where? Don’t leave. There’s something here._

He followed Rumlow out of the room.

* * *

_You will be shadowing another asset, designation; Winter. You’re going to imprint on him, me and on Secretary Pierce._

“Cute pet, Brock,” a second man said to Rumlow with a laugh, falling into step with Rumlow. He had followed Rumlow out of the room, through a metal gate, around corners and down stairs until they were in a dark labyrinth of halls. 

“He looks pretty good like this, all helpless and pathetic, doesn’t he? He’s like a fucking child.”

“You get him programmed?”

“Pierce said we’re just doing the imprinting. Not sure what we want him for.”

“Not even the basics?”

“Yeah. I don’t know, I like him all blank slate. Like I said, completely helpless.”

“And the wipe’s good?”

“So far.”

He tried to look around, but could not get his bearings, everything looked the same, everything was dark. The false dark, cold and fake against his skin. He curled in on himself a little as they walked. They stopped in front of a door that looked like all the other doors.

“Play nice,” Rumlow said to him, opening a door.

“Moment of truth,” another one of the agents murmured next to the commander. He heard the man speak, but did not know what he meant. What truth?

They stepped through the door. He could not clearly see the third man at first as he stood behind Rumlow and the other agent. But there was something about him; the cut of his jaw, the glint of metal at his arm, the blue of his eye.

His stomach lurched, he stumbled backwards against the now closed door. _Get out, get out, get out. Him, him, him._ He had never felt anything more strongly than the nameless emotion that was screaming through his nervous system as he stared at the man. At least to his knowledge, he could not remember anything before the chair, but he was certain this transcended the very boundaries of time. A flash of hot pain behind his eyes. He might have been screaming, but he could not hear it. Something inside of him was screaming at the sight of that man with the metal arm. Not fear, but total fear. Not pain, but total pain. Not love, but total love. Not hate, but… No, not hate. The emotion was so intense. A vague thought flickered in his mind that people were not meant to feel any emotion this strongly. He would surely die from it.

“Sentinel!” Rumlow yelled. A fresh jolt of pain shot through him from the collar, and he collapsed to the ground, pressing back into the door still. He did scream that time before the sound faded into a whimper.

“I don’t understand!” he cried out. Saying that had worked before, perhaps it would again. “Please, I don’t understand!”

And it was true, he did not understand. His heart jackhammered in his chest as he stared up at the commander, the hydra agent. The two men glared down at him, watching, looming like a threat. And he hated that, they felt powerful, but they had not earned it. The man with the metal arm was not so wrong, standing a few paces behind, merely observing, face schooled to neutral. He did not understand the man with the metal arm. He did not understand the thousand of things his brain was telling him at once in a language he did not speak.

“Asset,” the second man said to him, voice louder than necessary kneeling in front of him, forcing their eyes to meet with a firm hand on the back of his head “Do you know that man?”

His eyes darted between the second man and the man with the metal arm. _Did he?_ He had no idea; the feelings coursing through him were so strong that he could not be a stranger, the eyes so familiar that he was not someone new. But he could not say how he knew the man. It was like asking how he knew his heartbeat.

“Answer me, Sentinel.”

He met the eyes of the man with the metal arm. Those blue eyes bore into him, and the man just barely shook his head. It was such a small movement it might not have even happened. Those eyes met his and he thought of something without a name in the back of his mind. The last time he had seen those eyes had been—

“The chair,” he whispered. All three of the men above him relaxed, the tension slowly left the room.

“What do you remember?” Rumlow asked.

“I don’t know.”

“But he was with you in the chair?”

“Was he?”

Rumlow took a breath as the second Hydra agent stood up, rubbing his hand on his stubbled face. “I think the wipe’s still good. Just some residual stuff from the chair maybe.”

“Yeah,” said the second man. “We should keep an eye on him though.”

“We’re watching him until he dies, Jack.”

Those words hit him deeply. He did not want to die. He did not want to die here. He looked over to the man with the metal arm once more. The man with the metal gave him a small nod, which made something inside of his stomach unclench, but then the man turned away. He was confused; he wanted to keep looking at the man with the metal arm, keep seeing his blue eyes, but he did not know why.

After a moment a few more technicians walked in, and Rumlow pulled him up to standing, sitting him on a reclined chair. He did not want to sit there either, but there were no straps, no restraints like the other chair. Still his stomach flipped as Rumlow pushed him down. The plastic stuck to his skin and he swallowed down a shudder as he lay there exposed and vulnerable.

The technicians moved around him, and he wanted to watch them, keep them in his sights but he could not, there were too many, and Rumlow pressed down on his forehead, pushing his head back into the chair.

“Sentinel, their work does not matter. Do not move.”

 _Don’t tell me wha—_ He lay back down on the chair, a wave of frustration from another world rolling through him. He felt like his skin was still crackling with the electricity from the shock collar. He could not stay still; everything in his body, deep under his consciousness was telling him to get up, to run, to fight, but he could not. He lay docile and he could not say why. Besides, he could not leave, _there was something here._

“Ready for first imprint,” a technician said.

Something slipped over his head, pressing against his temples. He flinched, whimpered at the cold metal as the technician tightened it. Rumlow took his hand.

“Take off your glove; skin-to-skin contact.”

“Right.” 

Glove off, Rumlow took his hand once more. He did not want Rumlow to touch him, he almost pulled back. A technician on his other side held a syringe up, flicking against it with a fingernail. Something started humming near his face. He tried to jerk away.

“What—” he whispered. “No, I don’t—” but there was another technician laying a hand on his chest.

“Stay still,” the technician muttered.

The humming grew louder, now a roar. He could feel a great pressure in his skull. It was going to break him, he was going to crack open right there where he lay.

“Look at me, Sentinel,” Rumlow said above the noise.

Their eyes met, and a needle slipped into the vein of his other arm. In the space of a breath, he went from mild unease and uncertainty, to euphoric, almost painful shock. Chemicals rushed through him, hot and cold in his nerves from the syringe. The roar of the machine grew louder and his hand gripped Rumlow’s tight. He could not pull his eyes away even if he wanted.

Then it was over; he crashed down, muscles going limp against the chair, humming over, room quiet, save for the movement of technicians around him. He felt exhausted; muscles aching as he lay in the chair. Rumlow let go of his hand and he whimpered, unheard, as Rumlow turned to talk to the second hydra agent and one of the technicians, as is nothing had happened.

He hated Rumlow, but now he wanted Rumlow’s eyes on him, Rumlow’s attention. He would have slipped from the chair and followed him, if a technician did not press down on his shoulder. A whine fell from his lips.

“Hey, stay there, Sentinel,” Rumlow said meeting his eyes.

Rumlow ordered it, and so he would do it. He did not even think about it now. He lay back on the chair, now motionless, waiting. _“I don’t understand,_ ” his lips wanted to say. It was like a piece of string was connecting him and Rumlow, he could feel the man’s movement, he was aware of him. He wanted to cut the string, he wanted—

A new man walked in, wearing a suit. Everyone in the room turned and stood as he entered. Rumlow had told him to stay in the chair, so he did not move. But he looked at the man in the suit, dread suddenly gnawing at him. The man in the suit looked him up and down; something about the way the man’s eyes trailed over his body left him feeling more exposed; dirtier still than even the grime and dried blood that marred his skin.

“Commander, I’m impressed,” the man in the suit said at last. “You actually did it.”

“Having trouble believing it myself, sir. It was almost too easy.”

“It’s a pity we couldn’t find out what he knew about Fury.”

“Well any information is dead with Fury and burned out of him now.”

“All the better.”

The man in the suit stepped forward and grabbed his face, moving his head from side to side. A shudder tore through his body at the touch. “Oh now, don’t be like that,” the man said. “You’re going to be invaluable. Just like our Winter here.” The man ran his hand through Sentinel’s hair.

“Look at him, Sentinel,” Rumlow said.

He met the man’s eyes, but he wanted to do so even less than he wanted to meet Rumlow’s eyes. Something churned within him, bile and hatred, but he did not know where it came from.

“Do you know who I am?” the man asked. He shook his head. “I’m Alexander Pierce. Head of Hydra. You are an asset of Hydra and I am your top handler. We’re going to do great things with you, Sentinel. You’re going to help keep our new world pure.”

That was a lie. How he knew he could not say, but he knew it was a lie.

The loud hum started up again, and he jerked but did not turn his eyes from Pierce; Rumlow had told him not to so he physically could not. Pierce took his hand and the humming grew louder and the technician pierced his arm with a syringe once more. Again, his body was washed through with chemicals as he gripped the man’s hand tightly. The pressure at his head and the bliss through his veins was almost worse the second time around, all the while he could not take his eyes away from Pierce’s, and he wanted to.

It finished. He was left shivering on the chair as Pierce smirked down at him. Pierce ran his hand through his hair once more, wiping away sweat that had gathered on his brow. Then his hand slid down, past the collar on his neck and over his chest. He shuddered again on the chair. Part of him wanted to lean up into the touch and part of him wanted to recoil. His muscles twitched and spasmed at Pierce’s touch of their own accord. Pierce then ran a hand over his bare chest, up and down, coming close to—

“Incredible,” Pierce murmured, then, with a chuckle, stood up and stepped away from him. Again, the conflict arose in him. His body, the humming that was no longer there, was telling him to follow, but he did not want to, and Rumlow had not told him to move, but there was a pull all the same.

“And you’re sure he doesn’t remember anything?”

“Pretty sure. We may try another wipe in a few days just in case, but I wanted to get the imprinting done before anything else. And we’re still not going ahead with the real programming unless you change your mind, so then we’d be wiping him sooner. But the techs say to give him a week to see if anything crops up and gather data. Besides, it’s a little more fun like this.”

Pierced hummed and turned back to him. “What’s your name?” Pierce asked.

He did respond. He could not. He opened and closed his mouth trying to remember. Something as simple as his name, and he could not remember. Panic filled him once more. “I don’t— Sentinel?” he guessed.

“Is that your only name?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Pierce asked with condescending smile. “What else have you been called?”

He glanced back at Rumlow, remembering waking up. “Pretty boy,” he whispered.

Pierce stared at him for a moment and then barked a laugh; all the technicians jumped at the harsh sound. Pierce clapped Rumlow on the back and stepped back towards him. Pierce’s hand was on his face, cupping his jaw, his thumb playing with his lip. He wanted to scream, he wanted to lean into the touch. He could not move.

“Well, maybe we’ll save that for special occasions? Huh, pretty boy? Sentinel for every day, pretty boy for fun times?”

He wanted to suck on Pierce’s thumb, he wanted to die.

Then Pierce was gone. He strode out of the room with a smile, and all he could think to do was follow, but he could not leave the chair.

“Okay, last one,” Rumlow said. “Stay still.”

Then the man with the metal arm was in front of him. Relief and fear surged through him.

“Sentinel,” he said softly with a nod.

Sentinel could only gaze back, curious, lost, afraid. He trusted the man with the arm, _Winter_ , a voice in his mind told him. But that was not the right name either. It was there at the edges of his mind, the place where his lips pressed together. His eyes never left Winter’s, and they stared in silence at one another as the technicians worked on him.

“Are you ready?” Winter asked, voice soft. Sentinel nodded. The miraculous feel of Winter taking his hand was almost more than he could bear. The humming started up again, even louder than before. It was almost painful as he stared into Winter’s eyes. Winter would keep him safe. Something told him that down in his very soul. His throat hurt as if a scream was tearing out of it; his head pounded and all he could hear was the roar of the machine. His body was rigid, his hand gripped Winter’s, and that was all that mattered. Maybe another syringe pricked his skin, and maybe his heart was pumping chemically damaged blood through his veins now, but it did not matter. All he knew was Winter. Even now the pull of Rumlow’s string and Pierce’s string was nothing compared to the thick rope of Winter. He did not understand anything that was happening, but in Winter’s stare it was not important.

Winter would save him.

That was his last thought before everything went dark.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I secretly kind of hate this chapter... definitely feel like the writing gets better further on. I feel like it reads as very clunky because Steve doesn't know his name, so it's constantly 'he did X' or 'he y'ed' until the moniker 'Sentinel' gets more firmly established. I hope it makes sense. Yipes yipes yipes).
> 
> I've been Betsy. I [tumbl](http://batraquomancy.tumblr.com) if that's your thing.


	3. Chapter 3

“Are you awake?” a rough voice asked above Sentinel.

He was curled on the floor in a ball, cold except for where something warm gripped his hand. He opened his eyes and looked up to see Winter sitting next to him on the floor staring down at him, face blank. His heart thudded heavily in his chest, feeling trapped in his locked gaze. He could not even begin to name the things running through his mind; total and absolute trust, total and absolute terror. His only certainty was that he would not move from Winter’s side.

“Three imprints is not usually done at once. Especially before basic programming. It should not have been done,” Winter said. “You passed out. You had to metabolize the injection.”

“Imprint?” his throat felt rough and raw as the word came out.

“Good old fashioned mind-control,” he drawled. This time his voice sounded familiar; something from long ago that Sentinel did not have a word for. His heart clenched. “Electric currents, a cocktail of drugs, skin-to-skin contact. Manufactured, forced imprinting. Like a duckling.”

“Duckling?”

Winter took Sentinel’s face in his metal hand peering down into his eyes. Sentinel blinked up at him, breath hitching in his chest. “Perhaps I threw you too hard into the wall earlier. Brain damage. Or the chair. It was too much for you.” Sentinel froze in Winter’s hand, body tensing at the thought of the chair. _Not that, please not that._ “It will not happen again too soon,” Winter reassured him. “They are still learning about your brain. Again, yes, but not too soon.”

Sentinel was not comforted. He stared at Winter, familiar and foreign all at once. It felt like there was someone screaming inside of his head. A voice telling him to grab Winter’s hand and run. He could not do it, when he thought it his brain would not respond, his legs would not move.

“Why—“ _why can’t I run. Why can’t I fight?_

“The chair.”

“The chair?” Sentinel thought of it; growing colder though there was no change in the room.

“They call it a wipe, but I do not think it is just a wipe. I saw fight in you, and it is gone, even before the imprint. Fight does not leave like that. Fight is burned out of you. Fight has to grow back.”

“What does that mean?”

Winter did not respond. Sentinel wondered if perhaps Winter did not know what it meant either. 

“You called me something, before the chair.” Winter said softly after a moment. “Do you remember?” Sentinel shook his head. He could not remember anything from before the chair. That made him feel even colder than the cement floors. “No, of course not. You called me something, and it made me— there is something on the edges of my— you said— I had to hide it. What you said made me unstable. The technicians were almost ready to wipe me too.” Winter cut himself off with a frustrated sigh. “It doesn’t matter, the chair took away anything from you I might have used.”

“What did I say?” Sentinel asked.

“You said we knew each other. You begged me but only after you saw my face. You called me ‘Bucky.’”

“Bucky.” The word felt like something his tongue had tasted before. He thought he smelled cinnamon and ocean air, but cinnamon and ocean air meant nothing to him.

“Yes. But then the chair.” Winter’s eyes went a little cold. Sentinel shivered.

“I knew you,” Winter said after a moment. “I know you.”

Sentinel sat up, pulling his knees to his chest. Winter still held one of his hands, and the last thing Sentinel wanted was to let go. It was a wooden spar floating on the sea in a storm. There was nothing to keep Sentinel from drowning. They fell quiet but somehow that made things worse. Sentinel was wracking his brain; there was nothing, it was blank when he knew it should not be. He should have ideas, and memories and a compass. It felt like drowning, or falling, deep in space where there was no gravity, but he was falling still, pulled into the darkness and cold. There was nothing in his mind, and his breaths started to come heavy and fast in his chest. His shoulders trembled against the rough wall behind him.

“Stop,” Winter said. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I don’t know,” he whispered back. He spoke so softly still, _why couldn’t he speak? Why was his voice so quiet. It was usually so—_ “There’s nothing, there’s nothing, there’s nothing.” Winter wrapped his metal arm around Sentinel, cold against his naked skin. At that Sentinel started crying in earnest. Tears streamed down his face and a hot flush of shame ran though him. He gasped for air. “I don’t understand, I don’t understand.”

“They emptied you. The chair emptied you,” Winter said. “They did not even give you basic programming. They emptied you.”

“No.” He shook his head. They took; they took without asking. And now he was nothing.

“They emptied you so you could be filled again. You will learn new things.”

“No,” he whispered once more, wet and weak. “Please…” _Please, give it back._

“Cry now. This is the crash from the imprint chemicals. You’re fine.”

He sobbed into Winter’s shoulder as Winter held him tightly. Minutes passed, or hours. He was quiet, whimpering sometimes, screaming at others. He finally fell silent, pressing into Winter’s body, shivering with the cold. After a while he pulled his arm up, movement screaming in his shoulder and stared at his free hand. He could barely recognize it; his skin was covered in dried blood and grime, but he thought even then he should have been able to tell if his hand was his own. Something told him that even now it was too healthy looking; it should be paler, he should be smaller. The thick muscles of his legs, his chest, his arms were heavy. He could move them easily, they were not unwieldy, but a deep voice told him they were not his to move.

 _They must belong to Hydra._ What was Hydra? That word felt strange and wrong in his mind too, but he was an asset of Hydra. That is what Rumlow had said, what Pierce had said. The idea of Rumlow and Pierce was not comforting. It was like a thread tied at the base of his skull; they had sway over him and he did not know why. But it was only a thread, and it felt like it was fraying.

“What is happening to me?”

“You’re an asset, like me. Or will be soon, with training. We help people. We help Hydra,” Winter said clearly, more loudly than before. Sentinel wondered why, and thought perhaps he was not the only one meant to hear it.

“What’s an asset?”

“A weapon.”

“Am I…?”

“Yes. You are very strong. And you are very true. You will be a good asset.”

“What if I—“ _don’t want to be an asset. That’s not what I’m supposed to be. I’m something else._

“You will be a good asset.” Winter gave Sentinel’s shoulders a squeeze.

“Okay,” Sentinel whispered back. Winter sounded sure. The leather and straps of Winter’s clothes bit into his bare skin, but he melted into the other man easily. He was perhaps a little bigger than Winter, but he fit there in Winter’s arms. “You’re an asset too?” he asked.

“Yes. I have been an asset for a long time.”

“What is it?”

“It is helping Hydra the way they tell us to help. It is order.”

“Will you tell me what to do?”

“Yes.”

“Then I will do it.”

Winter did not speak for a moment, and then his voice dropped low. “And Rumlow? Pierce? Will you do what they tell you to?”

Sentinel thought. Perhaps earlier yes, but whatever they had done to his mind was not staying the way it was with Winter. His brain was not wired that way, even after they tried to rewire him. The thread was there, but fraying.

“If you want me to,” he said at last.

“Then do what they say. When I don’t want you to anymore, I will tell you.” Sentinel nodded. He shivered once more, and Winter pulled him closer. “You are cold.”

“I don’t like the cold,” Sentinel said without thinking. It was true. It was the truest thing he knew. It was something from before. Winter grew tense underneath him for a moment pulling Sentinel closer.

“Don’t tell the handlers,” he said very softly into his ear. Sentinel could barely hear it himself. “Do not tell them that. I won’t either. You can’t tell them that.”

Sentinel turned to look at Winter, meeting his eyes. The blue was so real, so familiar. He knew it, he knew him. He wondered if perhaps he did not even need the imprint with Winter. He would do whatever Winter told him to.

“Okay.”

“Do you remember anything else?” Winter asked.

“No.”

Winter looked sad at that, but nodded. “Okay.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I've been Betsy. I [tumbl](http://batraquomancy.tumblr.com) if that's your thing.


	4. Chapter 4

Sentinel had woken up again curled up on the floor, this time his head in Winter’s lap. Winter was sitting over him, sleeping against the wall, a hand on Sentinel’s shoulder. _Bucky should be the one laying down_ , a voice in Sentinel’s mind said. _He can’t be comfortable. He looks tired. He’s always doing this._ Sentinel finally had a chance to peer around the small cell. And that was what it was: a cell. A cement room maybe seven-foot square in size. A light shone from above them, another greenish, sickly fluorescent, flickering sporadically.

Sentinel flinched when the door opened. Compared to Winter he was slow to get to his feet, even though he jumped up like a bullet from a gun, shocked at the noise. Had Winter even been asleep? Sentinel was so certain he was snoring lightly second before.

They were taken to a tile room with a toilet and hose. Sentinel was ordered to take off his pants, skin cold and raw, but Winter stepped in, easily stripping down and folding his clothes by his boots by the door without prompting.

Sentinel gasped. Winter’s shoulder was a cruel crosshatch of scars where his shoulder met the metal arm. It was wrong, it was pain. Without thinking he raised his hand to touch the mottled skin. He wanted to see if it was warm to the touch like his own left shoulder was. He could not tell if it was the light of this world or something else, but Sentinel’s left shoulder looked yellowy-grey sometimes and hurt to move. He wondered if it would turn into the white lines of scarring that Winter had; would he get a metal arm too? Would it grow into metal? Winter’s shoulder must still hurt because Winter slapped his hand away with a hiss. Out of the corner of his eye, Sentinel saw the handlers write something on a tablet.

Winter did his business in the toilet and gestured for Sentinel to do the same. He felt a flush rise under his skin as the handlers and technicians watched him. Then he stood next to Winter over a drain.

Without warning a cruel, sharp jet of cold water hit them both from the thick hose. Sentinel yelped and curled away into the wall but Winter stood firm, the water hitting his skin painfully hard.

“Sentinel, resume position,” a technician shouted turning off the hose for a minute.

He moved back and the water started again. It was agony; it felt like being stabbed by thousands of knifes, cold and sharp and hard, bashing into his body like a truck. Sentinel’s skin was healing from whatever had injured him, whatever had left the dried blood he had from before. After a moment they turned around and the water sprayed their backs, and it almost hurt more because Sentinel knew what to expect.

“Do not do that again,” Winter said harshly as they finished. He walked back to his clothes and started to pull them on swiftly, easily adjusting the straps and harnesses. A technician handed Sentinel a t-shirt and soft, loose pants. He pulled them on slowly, tender skin shifting painfully as he moved. The cloth clung to his wet skin, but it felt warmer than nothing.

“Do what?” he asked Winter.

“Everything you did wrong.”

Sentinel shook his head, confused, but he could not ask for clarification; he was not sure that asking was not a wrong thing as well. Winter scoffed and turned away and out the door, leaving Sentinel rushing to follow. A handler passed him a smoothie. He sipped it but it tasted chalky and putrid. He was about to stop drinking when a handler barked at him to finish. He made a face and with a sigh sipped some more, trying not to gag. They moved through nondescript halls, going through doors that had no landmark. Sentinel was lost in this maze. There were no windows, no light. It could be the middle of the night, but there were not even any clocks on the wall to give him a clue. The part of him that told him to run away was still screaming, louder now as they walked, but he could not even say where he was supposed to go. _And there was something here. He could not leave it._

He stared at the back of Winter’s head as door after door passed by them, almost in a blur.

They arrived in a room that housed a few treadmills at one end, some weight machines, and an empty padded circle in the middle, surrounded by a metal ring to separate the mat from the hard cement floor. Rumlow and the other Hydra agent stood waiting for them.

“Get over here,” Rumlow said. When Sentinel stood in front of him Rumlow sneered. “Fucking incredible,” he muttered. He took Sentinel’s face in his hand, hard and rough, turning his head back and forth. “You’ll do anything. I bet you won’t even bite like Winter here.”

The idea of Winter biting Rumlow felt warm in Sentinel’s chest.

“Kneel.”

Sentinel stared. He only just barely wanted to kneel for Rumlow; the desire was not nearly as powerful as it had been before. It was more like an itch somewhere in the back of his mind. There was something wrong, he knew looking into Rumlow’s eyes he should have been crashing to the floor, desperate and needy; the itch told him as much. But it was just an itch, just a bare thread.

 _“Do what they say,”_ Winter had said the night before.

So he knelt on the ground in front of Rumlow.

Rumlow pulled on his hair, jerking his head up, facing the ceiling. “I can’t wait until Pierce gives us the go ahead. Do you know how long I wanted to wipe the smirk of your righteous mouth?”

Sentinel did not think he was supposed to answer that question. He closed his eyes and waited, trying to suppress a tremor that ran through his body. He was deeply unsettled; he did not know why. Sentinel did not move, but flinched when Rumlow patted him on the cheek, just shy of painful.

“Ah-ah.” A small flash of pain stabbed at his neck from the collar. “Don’t flinch. What happened to you? You’re a soldier. You’re an asset of Hydra, fucking act like it. You better hope the wipe didn’t make you completely useless.”

“Don’t worry. Those lips were made for sinning,” said the other agent with a smirk.

“Shit, Rollins.” They chuckled above him. “And we got two of ‘em now. Imagine the kind of fun we’ll have when Pierce is done with ‘em.”

“Yeah, what’s left of them. Last one didn’t make it more than a month, remember?”

“They’ll heal. That’s the beauty of it. They’ve got the serum.”

Sentinel glanced over at Winter who did not meet his eyes, instead standing off to the side, arms crossed in front of him staring at the ground. Sentinel did not understand what the handlers were talking about. The conversation dropped when some technicians came in. They stuck small pieces of plastic onto Sentinel’s chest, abdomen and temples. Then they started testing him.

He ran on the treadmill at the fastest speed for what felt like hours. Then he did it with intermittent zaps from the stun baton. The first one had startled him so much he slipped and fell off the treadmill, painfully crashing onto the moving track and being thrown off onto the floor. His left shoulder took the brunt of the fall, and he cried out loudly. Rumlow stood over him, sneering

“I said don’t flinch, and here you are screaming like a stuck pig,” he muttered before he shocked Sentinel with the shock collar. “That’s for flinching.” He shocked him again; “That’s for screaming. The collar is punishment, the baton is pain. You take the punishment, you ignore the pain.”

Sentinel rose to his feet and stepped back to the treadmill and started again; slowly he got used to the pain from the stun baton. He still flinched, but improved enough so Rumlow did not feel the need to punish him with the collar for the reaction. Similar things happened with the weight machines. He went back and forth between them. It felt like hours, of sprinting and lifting and pushups and pull ups, all the while being stabbed at random with the stun baton. He got better at not reacting, but after a while he finally felt his muscles straining, oxygen not reaching where it was needed and he grew sloppy. His left shoulder was burning; the skin of his stomach was raw from where Rumlow shocked him.

After one last long shock with the stun baton, they declared him finished. He knelt on the ground at Rumlow’s feet, once more trying to catch his breath with large, gasping pants as Rumlow spoke to him.

“Soon you won’t even feel the stun baton,” he said. “Order only comes through pain, and the stun baton is nothing compared to what we’re going to do to you in the long run.”

Sentinel stared up at him, thinking of the chair. That was the worst pain he knew. Worse than the stun baton, but was what Rumlow spoke of even worse than the chair? Rumlow crouched down in front of him, and Sentinel was trapped in his eyes. The thread was pulling, foreign and tight and sharp.

“Pain is just weakness leaving the body,” Rumlow whispered. “And you deserve pain. You don’t remember what you did, but you do deserve it. Do you understand?”

Sentinel nodded, but he did not understand.

Rumlow cupped his cheek, “Good boy,” he said with a smirk.

It was as if the taut, invisible thread was jerked inside of him. Sentinel groaned and all but collapsed into Rumlow’s hand, the words leaving him weak and warm and trembling. _He was good._ The feeling was like the rush of chemicals from the imprint, but more. It felt like a benediction, validation, warm, gold-flecked air filling his lungs. It was terrifying. The feeling was overwhelming, familiar and foreign like so much here and he wanted to scream, but he wanted to be called ‘good’ again. He knew Rumlow was lying, but it felt— Rumlow stepped back, and Sentinel whimpered at the loss of contact, falling over when Rumlow pushed him with his boot. He stared up at Rumlow, hoping, waiting, scared, terribly confused.

“Christ,” Rollins said. “Was that the imprint? Lord have mercy.”

Rumlow laughed, “Yeah. It might be personality coming out too. Did you techies get that?” he asked over to the men standing out of the way taking notes. “Yeah Cap always had a little bit of a praise kink, remember?”

 _Cap._ That word felt familiar too.

“God, we’re going to have so much fun with you. This is better than our Christmas bonus. Fucking asshole gonna get what’s due ya.”

Rollins and Rumlow laughed, and walked from the room. Sentinel started after them but Rumlow hissed, snapping his fingers and pointed to the ground. Sentinel stayed on his knees and watched them leave. The technicians were silent as they removed the sensors from his body. They told him and Winter to wait until further instruction and they stepped from the room, murmuring to each other softly, voices fading as they left. The door clicked shut. It was as if the technicians knew they would not try to escape; as if they were inanimate.

Winter said Sentinel was strong. He could break the lock; was it even locked? Sentinel thought perhaps Winter’s metal arm could break the lock. He did not know where these thoughts came from. He could not pull himself up from his knees. He could not tear his eyes from the door.

Winter walked slowly towards him. Sentinel saw him from the corner of his eye, but could not turn away from the door where Rumlow had left. He wanted to turn, to look up at Winter, but he wanted to follow Rumlow. He hated Rumlow and wanted nothing more than to crawl on the floor behind him. He shuddered at that thought.

Winter put his hand on Sentinel’s head and began softly petting his hair. “The imprint makes you easy to order, makes you want to help your handlers, to be with them,” he said. “This is not your fault. I know how you feel.” That was reassuring, but in a far off way. “He should not have called you a ‘good boy’ without easing you into it. Shouldn’t have praised you like that. He knows better, but does not care. It was cruel. Pierce is no better. Pierce might even be worse.” He took a breath, hand never leaving Sentinel’s head. “The Russians were better, I think. I have been in the chair since, but I think the Russians were better.”

“You have been in the chair?” Sentinel asked. That thought made him more sad, more scared than the idea of being in the chair himself.

“I was born in the chair.”

Sentinel shuddered underneath Winter’s hand, eyes still glued on the door. Without thinking he leaned close to Winter, feeling the man’s legs at his side, strong and protective. _A shield._

_What did that mean?_

“Rumlow is bad at dropping control when he’s done. He left you with no commands, no release from control. And you are weak from your testing. A bad combination.”

“I’m not supposed to feel like this. I don’t like it.”

“I don’t either. They did not even give you the basic programming. That would have helped. You know nothing, and you know this is wrong. You have been emptied. They are not filling you right… the Russians were better. They would not abuse the imprint the way these men do. They would train you, not hurt you.”

“He said I deserve pain.”

“I do not know why.” He said. “And this is more than pain.”

“He said I was a good boy.”

“You are a good soldier. A good asset.”

Something released in him when Winter said that. Like a needle poking through his core; whatever he had been feeling was slowly leaking out. _I’m not an asset, though. I’m something else. I don’t want to be an asset._ Sentinel did not speak for a long time. Winter stayed at his side, finally sitting next to him as he knelt on the harsh cement, hand moving from Sentinel’s head to his back, leather glove strange but welcome against his skin. The cold floor seeped into his skin through the thin pants he was wearing. 

“I don’t like him,” Sentinel said at last, very softly. “Rumlow. He feels wrong.”

Winter did not speak for a moment, his hand was warm against Sentinel’s back though, and that was enough.“And me?” he asked. “Do I feel wrong?”

Sentinel finally turned to Winter, as if a barrier had finally been cracked open in his mind. The man’s face was hard to read, eyes clouded, expression dark. Sentinel reached for him and touched him on the brow, smoothing away the crease that formed there.

“No,” he said earnestly. “You don’t feel wrong.”

 _You’re the only thing here that feels right._ Something was screaming at him from behind a wall in his mind.

Winter sighed, body relaxing. “You don’t feel wrong either,” Winter replied after a moment. Then very carefully he said; “You feel good. You are good.”

There was no tight string this time. No pull from outside of himself as his body filled with warmth. This was real. His heart was steady in his chest as he stared at Winter. This was a great blessing inside of his soul; calm, easy, right, and true. _He was good._ His body relaxed and he melted into Winter, feeling like his breathing was finally steady and oxygen was finally reaching his lungs. He curled up and lay his head in Winter’s lap; he felt like he fit there.

After a moment he started trembling; he hated the certainty with which he knew he would not leave Winter’s side, and the certainty that Rumlow, that Pierce, could control him. And the uncertainty of everything. Where he was, what he was, what was happening. He was being torn into pieces in his mind. It hurt more than the stun baton. Winter ran a hand up and down his arm.

“What is happening to me?” Sentinel asked. Winter had told him once before, but the question was still in his mind. He hated that he sounded so scared. He was supposed to be something else. He was supposed to run. _But there was something here._

He looked at Winter’s leg; he knew the shape of it even under the heavy black pants.

“You are an asset of Hydra.”

“I don’t want to be an asset.”

“I don’t either. But here we are. You are Hydra’s asset.”

Sentinel squeezed closer into Winter, wrapping an arm around his leg. The straps and harnesses dug into his skin but he did not care. He clung tight like a child, and part of him thought he was being foolish, but Winter was the only thing that felt safe, that felt real and right. _I’m not an asset. I am not Hydra’s. Not Hydra’s._

“No,” Sentinel said. Winter stopped rubbing his arm for a moment. “Not Hydra’s.” He felt Winter next to him, and never wanted to let go. He did not like the cold, but he liked Winter. That was a memory that felt like it came from before the chair. “I’m yours.”

Winter said nothing, but his hand started up again, solid and warm through the glove against his skin, calmly going up and down his arm, careful of his bad shoulder. Sentinel was not looking, but thought perhaps Winter was smiling.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been Betsy. I [tumbl](http://batraquomancy.tumblr.com) if that's your thing.


	5. Chapter 5

Sentinel learned many things in this new world. Each day was filled with information. Winter said that without the basic programming he was almost like a child, trying everything for the first time. Sentinel did not know anything, but he knew this was no place for a child. This was no place for him and Winter.

“It is almost easier when they freeze you,” Winter said. “That way you don’t have to deal with them.”

“Freeze?”

“Cryo. They freeze us when they don’t want us around. We’re out only for a few weeks at a time, maybe a month or two at most. Then a few months or a few years later they thaw us out again.”

“They freeze us?” Winter nodded. Sentinel did not like that at all. He thought he might be more frightened of freezing than he was of the chair. Deep within him the idea of being trapped in ice, in cryo, for years at a time was a spike of unwanted adrenaline; fear. That was the last thing he wanted. Let them do anything to him, but not that. Anything but that. He stared at Winter in horror. “I don’t— we can’t—“

“You do not like the cold.” Sentinel shook his head fiercely. “Don’t worry, you won’t remember it. I don’t.”

“Please don’t let them freeze me!” he pleaded, hushed whisper against Winter’s skin. Winter pulled him back by the shoulders and stared at him a long moment. Sentinel’s heart thudded in his chest as he watched Winter. “Please, Winter,” he whispered. “I can’t.”

Winter stared at him for a long moment, studying, face unreadable before he finally nodded.

 

He learned he and Winter were not allowed food, only the thick, chalky protein shakes the handlers gave him twice a day. It had all the nutrients and calories he and Winter could ever need. It tasted like death. Sentinel’s mouth had watered at the sight of a technician eating an apple; red and yellow and crisp; a trail of juice running down her finger before she wiped it away with a napkin. He would have licked it from her hand. He could not help but stare. That earned him a harsh zap from the shock collar. “Thou shall not covet,” Rollins hissed as Sentinel looked up from where he crashed onto the floor from the pain.

He learned that Rollins quoted from the Bible, usually during or after he was jamming the stun baton into Sentinel’s body. “Many are the afflictions of the righteous,” he had yelled into Sentinel’s ear as he held Sentinel by the hair before tossing him back onto the floor. His face connected with the cement and that pain had been almost a relief from the burn of the stun baton through his thin clothes, the burn of the shock collar through the muscles of his neck.

“He thinks God is on his side,” Winter said later when they were alone. “The Russians were better, they had none of this nonsense.” Sentinel could not remember what ‘God’ was and he did not know why the Russians did not have it, but he nodded. “This thought of his, this makes him dangerous.”

He learned Rollins was dangerous. 

 

 

He learned that clothing was not a right. He and Winter were as likely to be naked as they were to be covered. Winter had his black uniform or the same light shirt and pants that Sentinel had, but one look from Rumlow had him stripping down to his skin, to his metal. Another pointed look and Sentinel figured out what to do, and took off the light pants and shirt he had been given. Everything they did from then on was in the nude; running on the treadmill, lifting weights, drinking the vile protein smoothies, running through computer simulations, sparring together while technicians looked on.

They were trailing Rumlow through a lounge when other Hydra agents glanced over. A blush rose on his face as a cluster of agents stepped towards him, stopping Rumlow to chat, leering at Sentinel and Winter. He envied them their uniforms, their clothes; he was exposed and vulnerable.

“God, this is too much,” a woman said. She stepped forward and dug her fingers into Sentinel’s ribs. Sentinel did not flinch, but it was close.

“Fuck, he can’t even be real, look at that,” said a second man, running his hand down Sentinel’s back and thighs. He squeezed his upper thigh painfully hard. But Sentinel did not flinch.

“He’s not, he was grown in a bottle, remember?”

He learned he was grown in a bottle. He was not born in the chair like Winter.

Hands trailed up and down his body. Rumlow ignored him and Winter, and was talking with one of the otheragents. It was mundane small talk about the weather, and that confused Sentinel because there was no weather here. The agents ignored Winter, and he stood next to Sentinel staring ahead, jaw clenching. A hand jerked Sentinel’s collar, another pulled his hair, another squeezed his chest and pinched his nipple. He flinched when they did that and he heard someone chuckle; his body was tense, waiting for Rumlow to zap him with the collar but Rumlow did not notice. Then someone took both his nipples and pinched hard, twisting them, just as another hand slid between the cheeks of his rear. Sentinel yelped, trying to jerk away, while the Hydra agents laughed.

“Hey!” Rumlow said; he pulled the remote for the collar from his pocket and in a moment Sentinel was on his knees, now-familiar pain shooting through him from the collar once more. When the pain was over he was panting on the ground looking up at the gaggle of Hydra agents smirking down at him. “What are you shoutin’ for? What’s gotten into you?” Rumlow asked. He zapped Sentinel once more before resuming his conversation.

The hands were back; through his hair, on his face, poking at his neck around the collar. The agents were laughing above him. His body was fighting itself, all he wanted to do was squirm away, to lash out, to bite the hands that were touching him, but he could not. Something was stopping him. _Fight is burned out of you._ All he could do was lean back as far on his knees as he could, shoulders bumping into the legs of another agent, and whimper, arms hanging limp at his sides.

“Open your mouth,” an agent said. He tried shaking his head, but his lips parted instead.

Someone put something cold and metal into his mouth, shoving it towards his throat. _That’s a gun!_ his mind was screaming at him. _Get away, get away get away!_ But he did not know what a gun was, and it was in his mouth, and there was a hand holding his hair, and he could not get away even if he wanted to. He whimpered and groaned around the shaft of the gun, fighting down the urge to vomit as it hit the back of his throat. Tears were running down his face, mixing with drool, the metal scratched against his teeth.

Then it was gone. He tried to fight back the tears dripping from his eyes and the snot running from his nose, but he could not move because he had not been told to. Two separate hands ran their thumbs along his lips, stuck their fingers in his mouth.

“There’s better things these lips can be doing.”

“Hey, hey,” Rumlow finally said, turning back to Sentinel and the others. “Hands off.”

“Not our fault. If he didn’t want ‘em touched, he shouldn’t go walking around with lips like that.”

“Hmm, with tits like that.”

“Whatever man,” Rumlow said. “Hands to yourself. Those lips are for Pierce until further notice.”

He learned the taste of gun grease.

 

 

He learned he had no choice.

“Don’t flinch. Don’t scream.” Rumlow said that, looking directly into his eye. It was harder to fight back against any orders, to think them through, when he met Rumlow’s gaze. The eye contact made the thread tighter, made the embers of hate cool.

But despite the order, Sentinel had screamed when Rollins made him lay down on his side and pressed a white-hot brand into his thigh. He could just barely hear the man above him whisper, “No man hath seen God at any time, John chapter one, verse eighteen.”

He screamed again when Rumlow turned on the shock collar.

“What are you screaming for? What’s the point? What are you going to do, asset?” Rumlow asked him when he finally finished, as Sentinel lay panting on the floor.

 _I’m going to kill you._ The words floated in his head, and he hated them, and loved them, and could not act on them. He looked around and saw Winter standing nearby. Very slowly, Winter shook his head and Sentinel slumped down onto the ground, biting back a sob.

He learned he would have to wait.

 

 

He learned he had no choice.

“Kill him.”

“No… no.”

“Sentinel, that’s an order.”

Sentinel stared at the man kneeling in front of him, blindfolded and gagged. Sentinel was holding a gun. His hand was shaking as he pointed at the man. His hand was shaking. It was shaking so hard he was not sure he could even shoot the man now at point blank range. His hand knew how to shoot a gun; loading the clip into it was muscle memory and he stared at the thing in his hand for what felt like years in horror. He knew this, but he did not know this. Deep in the very base of his core he could not do this. This was wrong, this was so wrong.

“Please don’t make me.”

A sharp, fast zap from the shock collar made him jump. “Asset. That was an order. Kill him.”

“No…” he whispered.

Rumlow pulled his hair and made Sentinel meet his eye. “Kill him, Asset.”

The pull from the imprint was there then, he had to kill the man he did not know, the one kneeling helpless on the ground. His breathing came hard and fast in his chest, Rumlow pushed him away. The gun was at the man’s head, _“No! No! No!”_ someone with his voice yelled from far away and before Sentinel knew it, he was pulling the trigger over and over, screaming. His throat burned he was screaming so loud.

Then the shock collar activated and he crumpled to the ground. Rollins pulled the gun from him, and Sentinel lay there next to the corpse of the gagged man; lay there in a puddle of the man’s blood. Screaming, screaming, screaming. The shock collar went off again, harder this time and he spasmed against the floor, falling deeper into the puddle of blood; he was drowning in it, feeling it hot against his naked skin, in his hair, on his face, and all he could see was the corpse in front of him. He could not stop screaming.

“Calm him down!” someone screamed.

In a moment, Winter pulled him up and threw him face first against the wall; his head connected with the cement with a loud thud, and it was almost enough to knock the fear out of him. But his heart was pounding too fast, and he could not un-see the corpse in front of his eyelids.

He started screaming once again; “Please don’t make me, please don’t make me, please don’t make me!” _No, no, no, no!_ His hands were not his hands, he could not have stopped his finger from pulling the trigger, all because Rumlow had told him too. Winter held him still against the wall as he screamed and sobbed. “Please no, please.”

“Stop screaming,” Winter whispered into his neck. Sentinel immediately stopped, but could not stop crying, tears running down his face, hiccuping and groaning as he tried to hold in sobs.

“Technician, make a note; Asset has trouble following orders without direct eye-contact. Response to first kill; as-expected.” Rumlow snorted. “Probably not field-ready.”

“Yeah, no shit,” the technician replied.

Rumlow stepped over to him and Winter, and moved his head to face him. Sentinel knew what was happening before it happened and even though he was pinned tight by Winter and his face was held firm by Rumlow he was shaking his head, nausea already welling up inside of him. _No, no, don’t—_

“Good boy,” Rumlow hummed, grinning all teeth, inches away from Sentinel’s face.

He screamed again as he melted from the words, and closed his eyes and screamed at the sight of the man he just killed even though he could not stop himself. If Winter were not hold him up he would have fallen to to the ground. His brain was firing synapses like fireworks, and it almost hurt it was so much. Guilt and pride, guilt and pride, guilt and pride, death and praise. No one was meant to feel these things. Rumlow was so wrong, but it felt so sublime to be called good. Part of him knew now that was just the imprint but it hurt all the same. Winter shoved him and he bit back another sob, still staring at Rumlow.

“Killing will get easier,” Rumlow said. “Winter will train you up good. He’s a pro. He kills people all the time.” Sentinel’s stomach lurched and Rumlow got even closer. All Sentinel could smell was his putrid breath; all he could feel was Winter at his back, hand soft on the skin of his neck, just barely rubbing away Sentinel’s fear. “What, you didn’t know?” Rumlow continued. “He kills for Hydra. I’ve seen him kill men with his bare hands; one time he came back from a mission and he was washing blood and guts from the metal arm for days. Soon you’ll be right there with him.”

He learned Winter killed for Hydra. But now Sentinel did as well.

Rumlow leaned in and ran his tongue over the line of wet tears falling from Sentinel’s eyes.

He learned Rumlow was dangerous too.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This and the next chapter were originally written as one very long chapter, but I divided it up. (Also, this is the point in the story where I feel like the writing finally got good... whether or not it stays that way is questionable. Whoops)
> 
> I've been Betsy. I [tumbl](http://batraquomancy.tumblr.com) if that's your thing.


	6. Chapter 6

He learned he had no choice.

Pierce jammed a wrinkled finger into the still healing brand Rollins had given him, tsking softly as he examined it. “Thank god you heal quick. This is disgusting.”

The skull and tentacles, red and dripping puss and flecks of blood still ached. Sentinel let out a hiss and flinched before he could stop himself as Pierce scratched the brand, fingernails gouging deep into the wounded flesh. He tensed for the shock collar, but Pierce seemed uninterested in using it for his infraction. The confusion was almost painful; he was supposed to be shocked for flinching.

He stood next to Winter in a room of the Hydra compound he had never been in. As far as he knew this was the only room with rugs on the floor. The rugs were soft and thick under his feet, cream colored; far different from the cement everywhere else in this world.

Sentinel and Winter were naked once more. It seemed they spent only a few hours dressed at a time before someone made him strip down, for testing, for humiliation. It was a constant cycle with no discernible pattern. Sentinel was nervous, because he could feel Winter next to him was nervous as well. Winter was still quiet, still calm, still immovable, but something was different. A tense twist in the muscles in his neck as they walked closer and closer to this unopened door; an extra glance around as they stepped into the room; a near silent hitch in his breath at the sight of Pierce.

Sentinel realized they had never been alone with Pierce. The few times he had seen him he had been with Rumlow and one or two other handlers. He came and went, glancing at Sentinel as he was tested by the technicians, but he was not a fixture like Rumlow. That made Sentinel less terrified of him and more terrified of him. The imprint was strange with Rumlow, and titanium strong with Winter — _more than an imprint,_ his mind told him — but he had no idea what to expect from Pierce. His fingers shook at his sides.

“Shhh… there, there, pretty boy. We’re going to take care of you.”

The words were good, but Sentinel did not like them coming from Pierce. _Run, it’s time to run._ He did not dare glance over at Winter, but he was hoping all the same, hoping he could hear Sentinel’s loud, screaming thoughts. _Please, Winter, now. Please, we have to run._

He swallowed and looked at Pierce, waiting. Pierce cupped Sentinel’s face in his hand, and ran his thumb along Sentinel’s bottom lip, pulling it down just a little before taking Sentinel’s face and making him meet his eye.

“Put your hands behind your back, hold your arms” he said, voice low, steady and dangerous, his face too close to Sentinel’s. “Do not move them until I say.”

The mental threads from the imprint pulled at him. Sentinel’s arms moved on their own, his hands clasped his forearms. It was rictus tight, he could not move them even if he wanted to. This was worse than Rumlow’s orders, the eye-contact, the dark twist in his gaze; there was no way to fight this. He stared at Pierce, trying to keep his breathing steady.

Pierce smirked at Sentinel, and patted him on the cheek. Then he pulled something from his pocket and handed it to Winter. Sentinel saw the strip of dark navy cloth only for a moment before Winter was wrapping it around his eyes.

He jerked back, crashing into Winter who held him still and firm with the blindfold tight around his face. He wanted it off, he wanted to pull it off, but he could not move his hands. His feet were slipping on the carpet beneath him as he pressed against Winter, trying to escape. His fingers dug into his forearms as he tried to pull them away. Pierce ran a hand up his chest and he flinched, heart pounding, a terrified whine sounding out from his clenched teeth.

“There, there. You’re just skittish. We’ll break that out of you. We’ve got all night, we’ll take it slow.”

Sentinel was shaking his head, chest heaving but he felt like he was not getting any oxygen. Winter finished tying the blindfold, and put his hands on Sentinel’s shoulders, hot and cold against his skin; so hot it was burning, so cold it was ice. Sentinel was trembling so hard he felt like he would shatter, muscles and nerves and bones falling apart underneath his skin. _What’s happening? What’s happening?!_ The loss of his vision was maddening; his body was keyed up, his thoughts racing too fast for him to understand, his senses immediately heightening. He could hear his heart pounding, it was going so hard and so fast. _Run, run, run,_ and his body would not let him.

“Put him on his knees.”

Something nudged the back of his legs, and he fell heavily to his knees. Winter was still behind him, and was the only thing keeping him from drowning entirely. He knew if Winter left there would be nothing but the rub of carpet on his raw knees, and the deafening sound of his breathing in the air, and the feel of satin on his eyelashes as he frantically kept trying to blink away the dark.

“Come here, Winter.”

He learned what it was like to drown.

He learned he was allowed to flinch, to whimper, when an old man’s hands ghosted across his skin. He could not tell fingers from air on his body after a while, and all he could do was jerk and bite back screams whenever he felt something or thought he felt something. 

He learned that it was so much worse when Winter was told to lick the tears from his face than it was when Rumlow did it. He was so gentle. His warm breath slid over the now wet blindfold and Sentinel could feel it like a shiver from his scalp to his toes.

He learned no matter how much heat it seeped out of Sentinel’s skin, a metal hand would never be truly warm to the touch, but it was better than kneeling on the floor with nothing at all.

Again, he learned what it was like to drown.

He learned how loud bare feet on carpet could be.

He learned the feel of every little movement around him pulling on the fine hairs of his body; sensitive, cruel, unpredictable.

He learned the feel of his blood from gouges he made in his forearms dripping down his back, onto his feet; hot and sticky and drying on his skin.

He learned what a knife carving a star onto his chest felt like.

He learned what Winter tasted like with his own blood on the other man’s tongue.

Again, he learned what it was like to drown. Would his blood fill the room and swallow him? At least it would be warmer than the ice water he had drowned in the first time around.

_What ice water?_

His eyes squeezed shut under the blindfold and he could see the control panel of a plane; only white outside the window. Just as soon as he thought it though, it was gone. His heart had been screaming the same way then though, hadn’t it? _What?_

He learned what Winter’s naked skin felt like pressed flush against him, what Winter’s teeth felt like scraping a place on his jaw that made a moan he did not know he had in him fall from his throat. He learned what a metal hand felt like on his cock, he learned what Winter’s cock felt like pressed against his own. He learned parts of his body would fill with blood and start to ache without his permission. He learned the sound of Winter breathing barely-heard _“I’m sorry”s_ into his ear as his hands went where Pierce told them to; the sound in his throat as he bit back a sob because Winter did not want this either and Winter deserved so much better and he was so scared.

“No…” the word was out of his mouth, breath-soft, voice pitched embarrassingly high, barely able to make its way past the fear-tight muscles of Sentinel’s throat and trembling chest. _Please._

“No?” Pierce asked. His voice sounded so much louder in the quiet room.

He did not have to learn Pierce was dangerous. He knew so already.

Winter was gone, and Sentinel was alone once more, drowning in the dark navy of the blindfold. His heart was hammering. He did not think he could grow more tense, but now his body was taut with fear, anticipation, terror. He could almost smell the smug irritation coming off of Pierce.

Pierce’s hand grabbed his jaw, jerking it roughly. “‘No,’ he says. Where did that come from?” His fingernails dug into Sentinel’s cheek. “What makes you think you can say no to me? What makes you so special?”

_Nothing, I’m just a kid from Brooklyn._

_What?_

He whimpered. It felt like his brain was splitting open in his skull; half from terror and stress as Pierce’s grip grew tighter on his face, and half from the image of a man with a red skull for a face glaring down at him. He would have screamed from the pain were he not so terrified. He would have screamed at the red skull if he was not caught in the glare, in the hands, of a far more horrifying man.

Pierce stepped on his cock, pressing it against his thigh violently hard. Sentinel yelped at the pain, but part of him thought it was better than nothing at all, better than drowning. Then Pierce’s mouth was at his ear; Sentinel could smell his aftershave, the detergent on his suit, the alcohol laced coffee on his breath.

“You take this. This is a gift from Hydra. You do not get to refuse it. You do not get to say ‘no.’” Pierce jerked his head back by the hair and Sentinel felt something cold and thin press against his neck. “I could kill you right now. That is how little you matter. Do you hear me? You are nothing. Say it.”

“I am nothing,” Sentinel whispered.

“Louder!”

“I am nothing.” _Nothing, just a kid from Brooklyn._

“You are worthless. Again.”

“I am worthless.”

“You live or die by Hydra’s hand.”

“I live or die by Hydra’s hand.”

“Hydra owns you.”

“Hydra owns me.”

“You are not human.”

“I am not human.”

He let go of Sentinel’s hair with a rough jerk, then kicked him hard in the stomach. Sentinel groaned and curled in on himself as Pierce stepped way. Alone again, drowning again. His arms ached from holding them behind him for so long, and his left shoulder burned under his skin from the position.

He waited for a moment, body tense and shaking, for whatever was going to happen next. He felt Pierce step away and could hear his breath in his chest as he was about to speak again when the sound of the door opened made him jerk.

“Sir, we have a situation,” Rumlow’s voice said into the carpeted room. Somewhere he felt Winter letting out a breath of relief; something in the air on his skin had shifted.

He learned that that small shift was what a miracle felt like.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (don't worry, actual plot is coming soon! I'm not _just_ mindless torturing Steve, don't worry!)
> 
> I've been Betsy. I [tumbl](http://batraquomancy.tumblr.com) if that's your thing.


	7. Chapter 7

“Sir, we have a situation,” Rumlow’s voice said into the carpeted room.

“Excuse me?” Pierce asked, voice deadly low.

“Sir, I wouldn’t interrupt unless—“

Pierce’s steps moved away from Sentinel. He could just barely make out the conversation over the pound of blood in his ears. _Something, something, Zola, something, bitch, something, something insight…_ the words meant nothing, especially compared to the screaming in his mind. _Drowning, Brooklyn, ice, planes, drowning, drowning, drowning, drowning, you are not human, I am not human._

Something warm pressed against his thigh. Winter _._ A small sigh fell from Sentinel’s lips. It was a lifesaver in the navy storm. As Pierce and Rumlow talked, all Sentinel could feel was Winter sitting next to him. His breathing grew steady, and finally he whispered, “Winter…”

“Shh!” It was soft but it made Sentinel flinch all the same. _I’m not human, I’m sorry. Not you too, I’m—_ “No, it is not you,” he said quickly. “I’m listening. I need to hear.”

Sentinel nodded, not entirely convinced, but fell quiet anyway, chastised, head hanging down, still trembling, though not nearly as badly as before. 

“God damn it,” Pierce said at last. “Get a team ready and take care of it. You find her, you kill her, understood? Have the techs take these two back to the cell; clean ‘em up too, they’re filthy.”

“Where can I find you?”

“At home. Plausible deniability.” He sighed, sounding angry. “Do we have eyes on the ground?”

Their voices drifted away and the door closed. Sentinel and Winter were left alone, kneeling on the ground. After a moment Sentinel felt Winter’s hands on his face, pulling the blindfold off. He gasped as bright light hit his eyes; painful and blessed all at once. He blinked eyes darting around the room taking it all in; it looked exactly the same as it had before the blindfold, but everything was more important. He was spun around, facing a different way than he thought he would be, completely unsure how that had happened.

A metal hand at the bunched muscles of his back had him turn and face Winter. “Your arms?” he said. “You can put them down.”

Sentinel tried, but to his horror found they would not move. “No,” he whimpered. “No, no, no.” He could feel his muscles straining, but it was as if his very nerves were blocking them. His nails dug into his skin just as before, and he could barely feel the pain as they gouged his forearms behind his back. A bubble of panic rose in his throat as he gasped for air. “They won’t move, I can’t move them. I can’t— I can’t—”

“Shh, shh, shh. Pierce said not to move them until he said so. It’s just the imprint.” Winter’s hands lay over Sentinel’s, warm and cold, rubbing across his fingers and up and down his arms. Sentinel whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut. “Stay calm, it will be fixed.”

Sentinel nodded, trying to steady his breathing. It was easier now that Pierce was gone, but there was still something awful inside of him; a deep pit of dread in his core. His shoulder was burning so badly he thought he would scream, his head was pounding, throbbing, he was losing feeling to his feet from staying on his knees for so long. The trembling had started up again, and some part of him hated that. He hated this feeling; this helplessness. He was supposed to fight it. He was supposed to fight. He was not supposed to be here, why was he here? he was not human he was— “Nothing, I’m just a kid from Brooklyn.”

“What?”

“What?”

“You said something; ‘Nothing, I’m just a kid from Brooklyn.’ What does that mean?”

Sentinel shook his head; “I don’t know.”

“It is from before the chair.”

“I don’t know where it’s from.”

“Then it is from before the chair.” Sentinel did not know what to do with that information. He glanced over and flinched at the sight of Winter’s eyes, startled and unsettled at how scared he looked before turning away. “Do not tell them you remember. Do you understand?” Sentinel nodded once more.

Technicians came in. They took Sentinel and Winter away, washing them with the hose. It was not until they tried to hand Sentinel a set of clothing that they asked about his arms.

“Imprint,” Winter said softly; even then the technicians jumped at the sound of his voice. “Pierce’s imprint.”

The technicians sighed, and left Sentinel naked, walking the two of them to the cell once more. When the door closed, Winter rubbed Sentinel’s arms once more, trying to massage away the ache, careful of his bad shoulder. Sentinel sat, leaning against the wall. Minutes passed or hours before a technician came into the cell, throwing a pile of clothes on the floor and holding up something to Sentinel’s ear.

He flinched when he heard Pierce’s voice come through the other end, sounding irritated and cross; “Put your arms down; you’re done.”

Instantly he was able to let go, and he bit back a sob as the technician left, closing the door behind him. He almost screamed when he tried to move his arms. Winter had to help him get dressed, ever so gently maneuvering his arms through the sleeves of the shirt; steadying him as he stood to put on the pants. It was a little warmer with the thin clothes, but not much. The fabric caught on the healing cuts on his chest and the brand on his rear. Winter pushed him to lie down on his back, arms at his sides. Winter lay a tentative hand on his left shoulder; it was swelling, hot under his metal hand and Sentinel was so grateful the metal was cold. He whimpered when Winter pressed it gently causing him to pull back swiftly, startled and chagrined.

They were quiet for a long time. Sentinel’s head hurt when he tried to piece together his thoughts. There was a plane, there was water, there was a man with a red skull for a face. Every time he tried to focus on an image it felt like he was being stabbed behind the eyes. Every time his thoughts drifted they went back to the dead man he had killed on the floor, the room with the carpet, the gun in his mouth, the blindfold on his face.

“Tell me to stop doing what they say,” Sentinel whispered, begged. He stared up at the ceiling above him before rolling over to his good side, curling into Winter. The cement was still rough on his skin, but it was not carpet, and here there was no blood. He put a tentative hand on Winter’s leg. “Please, Winter. I can’t— this isn’t— we have to—” _run. We have to run._

“They told me they were training you to be a new asset.”

“I don’t want to be an asset, please, Winter, please—“ he tried to sit up, but Winter gently pushed him back down. He reached over to touch Sentinel’s lips, and Sentinel froze, biting back his words, sucking in a breath, feeling his heart start pounding once more. Winter hovered over his lips, looking into Sentinel’s eye, silently asking for permission. Sentinel shook his head, trying to keep his breathing steady, and Winter moved his hand away, putting it down on the floor next to Sentinel’s head. Sentinel leaned over just a little so he could feel Winter’s fingers on his skin. That was different than his lips, but he did not know why.

“Winter…” _Please._

“It is not like the others. Pierce had his way with them, but they were still trained, still programed. Winter Soldiers Bravo and Charlie were not strong but their brains took the training well. Delta was not strong and the wipe was too much. Pierce made use him and killed him; I was there. It was—“ he paused closing his eyes, looking pale. “They said they were training you, but this is not training. I have seen cruel things and I know how to do cruel things and that’s what I see them doing to you. This is worse than Delta. And seeing you hurt is— it makes me unstable, compromised. This is not what I was made for.”

“I was made in a bottle,” Sentinel said.

“No you weren’t, that’s stupid,” Winter replied. His voice sounded the way that made the words wrap their way comfortingly around Sentinel’s body. He wished Winter would speak like that more often. Less harsh, less clipped.

Winter let out a breath and turned to the door. “I heard a little of what Pierce and Rumlow were saying. I heard a name.”

“Like ‘Bucky’?” The name still felt so good on his lips. Cinnamon and ocean air.

“Like ‘Bucky,’ but different.”

“What was it?” he asked. “The name?”

“Romanov. Black Widow.” Sentinel blinked, pulling back from Winter to meet his eyes. Winter stared down at him. “You know it?”

“Red.” Not the same red as blood, but red all the same. Something red with organic, flowing movement. “A red curtain,” he said at last. But it was not a curtain. Sentinel did not know what it was.

He closed his eyes, trying to remember, but his head was starting ache again, splitting open; he was certain his brain would start to fall out. He curled closer to Winter, pressing his face into his leg, biting back a whimper. Without thinking he found Winter’s hand on the floor near his face and lifted it up, placing it on his head. For a moment they were still, and then Winter’s body shook underneath him as Sentinel heard him huff out a small laugh. He rubbed Sentinel’s hair softly, and Sentinel groaned, slowly relaxing into the concrete, into Winter’s leg.

“You’re remembering?” Winter asked after a moment.

“It hurts.”

Winter pressed gently into the base of his skull, the pressure slowly fading away. “Yes. But you must keep trying to remember. That will your first mission as my asset. I only wish it were easier.”

“I don’t want to be an asset.”

“Yes, I know.” He scratched at Sentinel’s scalp lightly, and it felt like he was melting from his hair down his neck and body and toes and then into the floor. “Can you be an asset for just a little longer?” he asked very softly.

“How much longer?”

“Just a little bit.”

“Then what?”

“Then we run. I will not let you freeze.”

He turned up from Winter’s leg and met his blue eyes. For the first time since before the chair, Sentinel felt himself smile. Winter smiled back down at him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been Betsy! Find me on [tumblr](http://batraquomancy.tumblr.com)!


	8. Chapter 8

“On your feet, Asset.”

Sentinel woke up, eyes bleary, disoriented. He thought he had been screaming as a man with a red skull for a face held him down, covering Sentinel’s eyes with his hands. He thought there had been ice water. He thought he saw Winter, falling and screaming. It had felt so real.

But here there was nothing, just the cell, cold cement rough through his clothes, and a gaggle of Hydra techs and handlers standing near the door. He clamored to his feet after Winter who was already standing at attention. The handler kicked him behind the knees and he crashed back down onto the floor. “Not you.”

Rumlow was already standing in front of Winter; “Asset, are you field operational?

“Yes.”

“Do you have any injuries?”

“No.”

“When was your last meal?”

“Nine hours, twenty-three minutes ago.”

“Fine.” He turned back to the door and pointed at one of the technicians who stood there. “Take him, prep him to roll out, give him a shake.”

Winter walked towards the door, sparing one last glance at Sentinel before disappearing down the hall. Sentinel started to get back to his feet to move after him.

“No, you stay here.”

“But—“

“Excuse me?” A sharp, quick zap from the collar his neck made him jump back. Rumlow glared at him. “You don’t speak unless spoken to. You stay here.” He put the remote back in his pocket and started to head out, talking to the other handlers. The words floated through into the room as he walked way as the door slowly shut. “Christ, we gotta wash that imprint when we’re done with this. I thought it’d be a lot funnier, but this shit is just pathetic.”

Then the door was closed and Sentinel was alone for the very first time. He sat back down, moving into the safety of the corner. He pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his right arm around them. His left hung heavily at his side. His shoulder was throbbing. While the cuts on his chest were almost gone, and the brand had stopped hurting hours ago, this was not going away. It felt like his whole arm did not fit into his body anymore; the yellow-black splotches had gotten worse. He brought his other hand up and pressed into one of the black marks, biting his lip to keep from crying out at the pain that radiated from there. He squeezed himself further into the corner, keeping an eye on the door.

He tried to think. This was his first mission; Winter had given it to him. He must try to remember. The skull-splitting pain was still there, but he thought perhaps he was getting used to it. He squeezed his eyes shut, desperate to get back to where he had been before the handlers came in, terrifying though it was.

 _“You have left humanity behind,”_ said the man with a red skull for a face. _I am not human._

 _“You wear a flag on your chest,”_ said the man. He thought his of chest where Pierce made Winter carved into him. He traced over the healing lines; a star with five points. He touched it gingerly, cuts already healing far too quickly then they should have.

Pierce’s eyes floated in front of him; his heart started pounding, his mind started splitting. _“To build a better world sometimes means having to tear the old one down,”_ said Pierce clearly in his mind. But Sentinel had never heard him say that before. _They emptied you, so they can fill you. They tore you down._

“Bucky,” he whispered, just to taste the name on his lips again. He saw Winter smiling down at him in the cell, but his hair was shorter, his skin less sallow, no dark circles under his eyes. Sentinel thought he looked good either way. He looked like home. Cinnamon and ocean air; he could smell it when he thought the name. _Grab my hand. Bucky, Bucky no!_ There was wind and white in the air, and Winter was falling and Sentinel could not reach him. His head pounded, and he shivered in the cold. He did not like the cold.

He opened his eyes, looking around the cell once more, a fine sheen of sweat on his face. He desperately tried to catch his breath, and slowly his head stopped aching. He could not tell if it was the pain from the memories or the image of Winter falling that hurt more. _You should’ve jumped after him,_ a voice that sounded almost like his own said; it was so much stronger than Sentinel’s voice though. There was no whispering now. _You should’ve been faster. It’s your fault, it’s your fault…_

“I’m sorry,” he whispered out into the cell.

No one heard him, so it felt like it was not enough. But Winter had been saying the same thing to him the night before and it had not been enough then either. He thought perhaps that maybe falling into the white was better than drowning in the navy of the blindfold. But either way it should have been him, not Winter. _It always should be you, not him. Never him. Protect him. There’s something here._

He shuddered, closing his eyes and unable to stop his thoughts from drifting to the night before. Winter should not have had to be there. It was not fair, for either of them. He thought about what had happened, the cuts on his chest, the way he gripped his arms from the imprint. Something told Sentinel that Winter would taste better without Sentinel’s blood in his mouth. From very far away the desire to find out if it was true was a warm thrum in his core. He wanted to know if Winter’s teeth at that spot on his jaw would make him moan every time. He wanted to know what Winter’s hair looked like in between his fingers. He cursed Pierce and the blindfold. He wished he had been able to see the way Winter’s skin looked pressed against his—

_“God, Buck I wish we didn’t have to do it like this. I wish I could see you.” The rough bark of a tree against his back through the uniform was nothing like the rough, perfect calloused skin of Bucky’s hand on his neck under his uniform, Bucky’s hand on his cock in his pants as he came back down from his orgasm. The night’s dark was made worse by cloud coverage and a new moon and Steve could only feel Bucky, not make out anything at all, even with his heightened vision._

_“I don’t need to see you, I know you’re beautiful. God, you’re fuckin’ perfect.” Teeth were on his skin, his neck, a perfect spot on his jaw that made a high, happy whine sound in his throat. Bucky covered his mouth with a warm hand, giggling. “You’re gonna wake up Duggan, you punk.”_

_“That was your fault.” He pressed his cheek to Bucky’s._

_“God, I can feel you blushing through your skin. It’s like you’re on fire.”_

_“Enjoy it while it lasts. This snow is just—“ he shivered as Bucky pressed impossibly closer to him._

_“Who’da thought Swiss winters would be worse than Brooklyn winters?”_

_“Not me.”_

_“We’re moving to California when this shit is done. I ain’t doing snow anymore.”_

_He laughed at that and then whined again when Bucky’s hand left his cock, and moaned quietly when cum wet fingers found his lips. He sucked eagerly; Bucky’s gasp shot straight to his groin, and his hips bucked against Bucky’s without his permission._

_“You’re already getting hard again? God, this’ll never get old.”_

_“It’s the fucking serum. It’s like I got a whole clip of bullets to shoot out instead of just one.”_

_“My boy the fuck-gun,” Bucky whispered against his cheek, grinning onto his skin, grinding his hips in that so-good way._

_He groaned, shaking his head away from Bucky’s hand coming to cover his mouth. “You’re terrible. That was fucking awful.”_

_“You like it. I can’t believe we’ve waited this long. No dame would deal with my shit jokes.”_

_A cold wind blew through the woods and he pulled Bucky closer to him; he would have pulled him into his very skin and bones if he could have. “I wish I could see you,” he whispered again. “I don’t want to do this in the dark. I wish we could— what if something—“_

_“Hey, hey, it’s okay. Nothing’s gonna happen. I’m sure we’ll do stupider things than jumpin’ on a god-damn train before the war’s over, you know?”_

_“I’m stupid; can’t believe I came up with that. What the fuck is wrong with me?”_

_“Imagine the intel we could get from Zola, though,” Bucky said, his voice going even softer. “We can find out what he did to me. What’s wrong with me.”_

_“There’s nothing wrong with you.” Bucky pressed into his neck, breath hot against his skin, so different from the icy chill around them. “Christ, fuck. What if something happens? I can’t lose you, Bucky, I won’t live through it. We only just started—”_

_“I love you,” Bucky whispered._

_He was quiet as Bucky grew still against him. His breath caught in his throat._

_“Sorry,” Bucky said, trying to pull back. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—“ He clung even more tightly to Bucky’s jacket, forgetting everything. He was cursing the dark night, all he wanted was to look at Bucky’s face now, forever._

_“No, don’t be sorry. I love you too. God, I love you too.” He pressed his lips to Bucky’s; all his senses heightened in the dark night. The smell of Mrs. Barnes’s cinnamon cookies, and the water of the Brooklyn docks that always seemed to be on Bucky’s skin, even here in Europe, filled his nose. Bucky’s short hair was perfect in his hand, and Bucky’s lips were perfect against his._

_“I love you so much,” he said when they broke apart. “I’ve been loving you since before I knew your name. I should’ve told you sooner—”_

_“Stevie…”_

Sentinel jerked up to his feet, shooting into the other corner of the room as painful, mind-splitting memories flooded him. He slammed his bad arm against the wall and bit back a scream; the pain was no worse the the stabbing behind his eyes. He crumpled to the floor clutching his head in his hands. He tried his hardest to be quiet, but he could barely bite back the low wine in his throat as he rocked back and forth. He pulled at the hair at the base of his skull and it was almost enough to distract him from the pain in his head, the pain in his shoulder, the pain of having Winter right there saying he loved him.

His eyes were wet and he furiously wiped tears away and forced himself to calm down. He stared at the wall of the cell ahead of him. No one could know he remembered; only Winter. He remembered that for Winter. This was his mission. _We zipline onto a moving train._ He would do it even if it killed him. He would remember.

He thought he heard steps outside of the cell and he got to his feet as the door opened. It was a lone technician with another protein shake. He chugged it down and handed the empty cup back to her and she left wordlessly.

He sat back down on the floor, took a steadying breath; he tried to remember what Winter — no, _Bucky,_ no, _Winter_ — tasted like, but now all that was in his mouth was the chalky protein shake. He shook his head. There were more important things to remember. Romanov; red. Pierce from before the chair. A man with a red skull for a face. Hydra. Cap. A star on his chest.If he could remember, perhaps he could be helpful when Winter decided it was time for them to run. Romanov, ice, Pierce, Bucky, Hydra, run, Cap, stars, the cold, Brooklyn, the train, the plane, Pierce, ice, Romanov, Hydra, a red skull, Bucky, a train, cinnamon, guns, ice, run, Romanov, a plane in the ocean, Bucky, lips, cinnamon,

_Stevie…_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Shh... I actually love this chapter. So proud of it! *blushes*)
> 
> I've been Betsy! Find me on the handy dandy[tumblr dot com](http://batraquomancy.tumblr.com)!


	9. Chapter 9

“Come on, you’ve gotta do a maintenance run.”

Sentinel stared at the technician for a moment before following him out of the cell. The door had opened and still Winter had not returned. It took everything in his power not to ask the technician where he was. Deep down he knew that would not be good for either of them. Sentinel towered over the technician; _I could kill him with my bare hands._

The thought made him almost stumble as they walked down the hall.

_But I won’t._

He had never considered his size before now. He realized he was taller and broader than many of the people in the Hydra compound. He was grown in a bottle, there was something different about him. _“You are very strong. And you are very true. You will make a good asset.”_

How strong was he though? Winter was strong, he knew. There was something strong in Rumlow, but it did not feel strong in the same way; power without control. Where did Sentinel stand on this scale? Was he between Rumlow and Winter? Was he below them? He clenched his fist. At first he put his thumb inside his fingers, but there was something wrong about that. He then wrapped his thumb on the outside — “ _that’ll keep ya from dislocating your thumb when you punch a guy.”_

“What are you doing?” The technician was staring at him, and he realized he had stopped walking and was holding his fist in front of him, staring at it. “Asset, what are you doing?”

“I don’t know.”

The technician huffed and walked Sentinel up a flight of stairs and into a room he had only been in once before. He froze.

There was the chair.

“Asset?” He flinched when the technician put a gloved hand on his back. It was almost comforting, but it did not stop the pound of his heart and the spike of adrenaline through his veins. “Sentinel, this is not a wipe. This is routine maintenance.”

The technician’s hand pushed Sentinel over to another part of the room, a different chair, some medical equipment. This was the same room, but now there was more stuff in it; he thought it had been empty before, except for a man in the shadows. _What man in the shadows?_ He stumbled a little as the technician guided him; he did not want to turn his back on the chair. He needed to keep it in his sight.

“Greg, make a note; next wipe is going to need an endorphin cocktail for Sentinel. He’s acting way too twitchy.”

“Yeah, sure.”

They sat him down; he kept glancing over his shoulder at the chair. He only stopped when the technician gave him a warning shock from the collar, though not nearly as high a setting as what Rumlow liked to use; it did not even hurt. The technician wrapped something around his left arm, and he winced when it jostled his shoulder. The technician glanced at his shoulder before shooting an inquisitive look at the other technician. The other man looked at Sentinel’s shoulder as well before raising his hands and rolling back over to his station. The first technician rolled his eyes and grumbled, “Just put a note in the file, ‘physician needed.’ We can’t even touch him. I’m scared shitless just doing the fucking maintenance.”

“Like, every subfile is ‘await authority’ locked. It’s like, fuck, just let us do our damn jobs.”

“Right? What the hell?” He sighed. “So did you catch the game the other night? The Giants really took a beating.”

“Hmm. No, missed that one. I was chaperoning this bowling thing for my daughter’s class.”

The thing around Sentinel’s arm started squeezing, pressure building slowly against his skin. Sentinel tried to keep his breathing steady, but it hurt, and it was not helping the pain in his shoulder either.

“Christ, 160 over 90. That can’t be right. Hey, pull up his old file? Give me the blood pressure averages. Maybe he just runs a little harder.”

“No, looks here like he runs a little slower.”

“That’s weird.”

“Maybe a little white-coat syndrome?”

The first technician grabbed a small box from the table and lifted it to Sentinel’s face, hovering near his temple. He clicked it, and there was a sharp, sudden ‘buzz’ sound that lasted less than a second, vibrating through his skull. “Sentinel, look at me.” He met the technician’s eye. “Do breathing exercise one.”

Sentinel stared at him. He wanted to do the exercise, but he did not know what it was. It felt like the same pull that happened when Rumlow and Pierce met his eyes, but not nearly as strong. He glanced over at the small box in the technician’s hand. His breathing grew frantic and he stared at the technician; he shook his head. He could not follow the order, and everything in his body was screaming at him to do so.

“I— I don’t—“ Now he could not even breathe at all. He kept trying to inhale and his body would not let oxygen in.

“Oh shit, he doesn’t know it, Hank. Sentinel, relax.” The box was at his head again; another ‘buzz’ and then; “Dismiss last order.”

Something released in him, he sat back just a little bit on the chair, gasping for air. All he could do was wait for further instruction, heart steadying slowly, eyes darting back and forth between the two technicians.

“I thought the beta-shift guys did the programming.”

“Looks like Rumlow cancelled it.”

“Are you fucking kidd—“ The first technician rolled his eyes. “He still doesn’t have his basic programming? Fucking Christ. One day I hope fucking sadist Rumlow finds himself in a collapsing building because he was too fucking pig-headed to follow fucking procedure.”

The technician was angry but not at Sentinel. It was endearing in a strange way, possibly due to the image of Rumlow in a collapsing building.

“Do you wanna wipe him and start fresh?”

“Nah, we should wait the seven days we planned on. Just, you’d think they’d run him through the basic programming foundation.”

“We could just tell him what to do? Use the baby-imprint?”

“Yeah, and then have him not be able to breathe unless we tell him when and how? No thanks. You can explain to Pierce how we killed Captain America by having him suffocate himself.”

 _Captain America. Cap._ It clicked in Sentinel’s mind, and he had to keep himself from smiling, keep from wincing. It was a sharp prod in his brain, but it was so fast that the pain was gone within a few moments.

“Okay, just put in the blood pressure with a note that it might not be accurate. Not used as baseline, blah, blah. Can’t do anything without authority anyway, blah blah.”

“Got it.”

They typed out notes on the two computers nearby, leaving Sentinel alone, chatting absentmindedly. Every now and then they would do things like shine a light in Sentinel’s eyes or look into his ears, they had him open his mouth and examined his teeth and throat. It felt familiar.

“Got any weekend plans?”

“Not yet, why.”

“Well, you know. TGIF.”

“Hank, it’s Tuesday.”

“Jesus Christ, are you fucking joking?”

* * *

They were interrupted by a commotion outside, growing louder and closer. Hydra agents burst into the room. Rollins and another agent had Winter between them, carrying him over to the chair. _“Move,”_ a voice said to Sentinel but he was frozen. There was blood, shiny and slick against Winter’s black uniform. Winter was able to sit up on his own, but the technicians had to dart over and hold him up and start to remove his coverings. _“Get out of the chair,”_ said a voice. As they undid the straps and pulled the leather off him, Sentinel could not tear his eyes away as he saw blood start flowing in earnest before the technicians pressed white gauze against it. They took off his collar. Winter was pale, his skin sallow. Sentinel winced right along with Winter when the technicians—

“On the ground asset!” Rumlow screamed in Sentinel’s ear. He was so startled he fell out of the chair and crashed onto the floor as the shock collar started going off, a long drawn out jolt that had him screaming. Rumlow kicked him in the ribs when he was down before crashing angrily into the chair Sentinel had just been sitting in moments before.

 _I can kill him with my bare hands_ , he thought again. _“I don’t like bullies,”_ flitted through his mind, though it was another sharp pain in his head. He stared at his hands for a moment; _something’s stopping me. The imprint._ The realization was more of a jolt than the collar.

A technician came to Rumlow slowly, gloved hands raised, offering to look at a wound in his arm. Sentinel watched as Rumlow nodded, pulling off his leather glove and shoving it in his mouth as the technician reached over to Rumlow’s arm. Sentinel pushed himself up just a little and saw a long black arrow was embedded in Rumlow’s bicep. Rumlow met the technicians eye and—

“Wait up,” Rollins reached into his pocket and pulled out a flask, tossing it across the room to Rumlow. The technician caught it instead and passed it along. Rumlow took a long swig after pulling the glove from his mouth, and then poured some on his arm where the arrow was sticking out. “‘Give strong drink unto him that is ready to perish, and wine unto those that be of heavy hearts.’ Proverbs thirty-one, verse six.”

“Rollins, shut the fuck up,” Rumlow snapped before taking another drink and shoving the glove back in his mouth. He nodded at the technician, and with a sharp movement, the technician shoved the arrow all the way through Rumlow’s arm. 

Something dark inside of Sentinel felt warm at the loud grunt of pain. It frightened him, but at the same time he relished in it. It probably did not hurt as much as the shock collar, but at least it hurt. _“You’re better than that Ste£_ ∞ _r¥_ **≈** ®†,” said a woman’s voice. What had she called him? The words were muddled in his mind. It was so close, and he couldn’t hear it. _“You’re better than such thoughts.”_

_“But ma!”_

_“No! Hush! Since when is it up to you to decide who deserves punishment? Did the Archangel Michael promote you when I wasn’t looking?”_ A woman’s face filled his vision, hazy and bright. All Sentinel wanted was to see it more clearly but he could not make it less blurry. _“It’s not for us to dole out vengeance as we see fit. Mr. Cafferty is a bad man, but his judgement will come. Trust in that.”_

_“Yes, ma’am.”_

_“That goes for you too, James. I know you’re right along thinking those thoughts.”_

_“Yes ma’am,”_ another young boy’s voice said in Sentinel’s head. He blinked away the pain behind his eyes at the memory.

The technician snapped the arrow above the entry wound, and pulled it through, immediately dousing it in rubbing alcohol and pressing bandages on both sides of his arms.

“That fucking bastard was shooting arrows. Bitch sure knows how to pick ‘em,” Rumlow said to the room. The other Hydra agents started muttering along with him.

“How the hell did they get out of the truck?”

“The fuck should I know?”

“God damn it, god fucking damn it—“

“Who was that other guy?”

“Did you see his wings? What the fuck?”

“This is a god damned clusterfuck.”

Sentinel slowly brought himself up to sitting, sliding back just a little bit into the technician’s desk. He met Winter’s eye across the room, and Winter gave him another one of his small, imperceptible nods. Sentinel let out a breath he did not realize he had been holding. He stared as the technician pulled away the bandaging and started to stitch Winter’s skin back together. There was a gash about two inches wide, but it looked relatively clean; it was no gaping bullet hole like the ones he had put into the man Rumlow made Sentinel kill, there was no sick bubbling like the brand on his thigh, but it was deeper than the cuts Winter had put into his chest at Pierce’s orders. There was nothing else to compare the wound to, except perhaps the arrow in Rumlow’s arm, but he had not gotten a good look at it, and it looked too clean.

The temperature of the room dropped when Pierce stepped in. Sentinel was sliding back almost under the desk at the sight of him, moving without thinking. He hated the fear in his stomach at the man. He wanted to stand up, to face him. There was dread inside of him, and wrath. The emotions were like bile in his throat; unwelcome and something he was entirely unused to. He hated the man for making him feel such hate at all. _I could kill him with my bare hands_ , he thought to himself again. 

_Maybe I will._

“Mission report,” he asked the room. No one responded. He walked up to Winter who sat biting back grunts of pain as the technician finished stitching. Winter stared at the floor in front of him. “Look at me.” Winter turned and faced him. “Mission report, now.”

“Mission unsuccessful,” Winter said, voice low. Pierce backhanded Winter hard across the face; the noise of it echoed into the room. Sentinel’s fists were clenched.

“That is unacceptable.” Winter said nothing, turning a little away out of Pierce’s direct gaze. “Your work has been a gift to mankind. You shaped the century. I need you to do it one more time. Society’s at a tipping point between order and chaos.” He took Winter’s head in his hand, turning his face back up to face him. “And you have a job to do. You have to do better. Will you do better for me?”

Sentinel felt a twist in his core as he watched Winter lean into Pierce’s hand, never wavering from his eyes, and nod. “I’ll be better. I’ll be good,” Sentinel heard him whisper.

“Good boy,” Pierce whispered back. “You’re helping so much.” Winter shuddered on the chair. Pierce ran a thumb over his lip and pressed him back down in the chair before taking his hand away and turning to the technicians. Winter watched his every movement. “Does he need to be re-prepped?”

“Not unless you want. He’s still on-mission.”

“Functional?”

“He’s within capacity.”

“Then make sure he’s ready for tomorrow.” Pierce started to turn away but caught sight of Sentinel on the floor. “What’s he doing here?”

“We were doing routine maintenance on him when the team came back,” answered the technician. “We’re finishing up and getting ready to bring him back to his cell.”

Pierce stepped over to where Sentinel sat on the floor. He was frozen in the older man’s gaze, desperate to keep his breathing calm. Desperate to keep the hate from his eyes. Was he even supposed to be feeling that? Pierce’s face was indecipherable as he stared at Sentinel. Then a cold smirk grew on his lips.

“When you’re done, let me know. Put him in the rec room for me.” His eyes went up and down Sentinel’s body, and Sentinel felt a wave of revulsion pass through him. “With the cuffs.”

Sentinel felt ice in his veins. He glanced over at Winter as Pierce turned and walked away. Winter’s eyes were just a hair wider than usual; anyone else might not have noticed the difference, but Sentinel could see it. He knew that look; perhaps it was something he knew even before the chair. Winter was scared.

Rumlow and the other Hydra agents left shortly after Pierce, and the technician sat Sentinel back up. They poked and prodded him a little bit longer. Sentinel turned to look over at Winter, who was sitting in the chair — _the chair, get out of the chair, please, it’s not safe, it hurts so much,_ — wincing occasionally as the second technician used fine tools on the open plating in his metal arm.

Sentinel’s technician rolled his chair away, and stood up and walked over to a closet in the room that Sentinel had not noticed before.

“Shit, Hank,” he said after a moment, voice muffled. “Where are the cuffs?”

“They not in there?”

The other technician got up out of the chair and walked over the storage closet. For a moment, Sentinel and Winter were alone. Then in the space of a breath, Winter was at Sentinel’s side, leaning down and pressing his lips to Sentinel’s ear.

“Lincoln Memorial,” he whispered frantically. Sentinel did not know what the words meant. “If I am not here to get you out, you get out, you go to Lincoln Memorial. I’ll find you. You let whatever happens happen to you, and then you get out, you go to Lincoln Memorial.”

Sentinel nodded. “I’ll try.”

Winter pulled back and met Sentinel’s eyes. “Let it happen, okay? Get out. Get to Lincoln Memorial.” Sentinel for the first time with Winter felt the stiff, foreign pull of a direct order; the imprint working on his brain. He jerked away and stared at Winter in horror. The imprint on his brain suddenly felt much more invasive than it had with Rumlow or even Pierce. He never expected Winter would use it on him. “I’m sorry. I had to make sure you did it. I had to. I’m sorry, I’m sorry—“

There was a clatter behind him, and the technicians came out of the closet. Sentinel glanced to where was standing in front of him but he was gone, sitting where the technician had left him. It was as if he had not moved at all.

“Sentinel, follow me.”

He got up from his seat and started after the technician. He glanced back at Winter one more time who mouthed the words _“I’m sorry”_ once more. It was not enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Secretly kind of invested in the idea of the technicians like this. 'Normal guys' trying to do their jobs, thwarted by bureaucracy and almost forcing themselves into obliviousness at how evil they actually are. Like, it makes it almost worse, doesn't it? Holy cow).
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://batraquomancy.tumblr.com) (if that's your thing). Come say hi. And because someone asked, [here is a link](http://batraquomancy.tumblr.com/post/124114361678) to reblog/share this story on tumblr (if that's your thing). Thanks for reading; have a lovely weekend! :)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **HEADS UP!** This chapter is awful, intense and potentially triggering involving extreme knife-play/torture, spoken mentions of potential future rape and general horribleness (at almost, but not quite HTP-levels). More details/explanations/trigger possibilities in the end notes.

Sentinel stood in the room with the carpet alone. The technician had set the cuffs on a cabinet, and left, locking him in. He saw now that there were small drops of brown-red on the white carpet a few steps away, where he must have been kneeling the night before. Dried blood, he realized. His dried blood.

He jumped when Pierce opened the door and walked into the room, and crashed to the ground on his knees when Pierce pulled out the remote and shocked him with the collar without warning.

“We didn’t get to finish what we started last night,” Pierce said easily. “But since your friend isn’t with us, I thought we’d go a different route.”

Sentinel stayed on his knees looking up at Pierce, tracking him with his eyes. Pierce picked up the cuffs, setting a glass of amber liquid down on the cabinet in their place. He reached into the cabinet and pulled out bag made of leather; Sentinel could hear metal pieces clicking inside of of it. As he stepped towards Sentinel, he kicked up the edge of the rug, revealing that the floor underneath them was metal, not cement like the rest of the compound. He dropped the cuffs and the leather roll next to Sentinel, and pulled a familiar strip of navy cloth from his pocket, dangling it in front of Sentinel’s face.

“Because you liked this so much last time.”

Dread pooled at the pit of Sentinel’s stomach. Pierce wrapped it around his eyes, engulfing him in the dark once more. Sentinel wished he had not flinched when the soft cloth touched him, but he had. Pierce chuckled above him and the sound made his stomach turn to ice. He felt Pierce’s hands on his face and brow; it would have been comforting were it anyone else but now it just made him feel sick. He started trembling, memories of last night flooding back even faster than they had been before; even more cruel now that he could not see. He tried to fight it back down, tried to stay calm. Pierce took a handful of Sentinel’s hair and pulled it, jerking Sentinel’s head sharply before letting go. 

“Take off your shirt, lie on your back.” But Pierce could not look him in the eye; this was not a command made firm in his mind by the imprint. He did not have to do it. He did not move.Then he felt the familiar, thin cold blade of a knife at his neck, just above the shock collar. “Sentinel. Do I really seem like I want to play games? I can turn on the collar and leave it until you die from it, would you prefer that?”

_Yes._

“Take off your shirt, lie on your back. I’m not asking again.”

 _If you die now, you can’t run. You can’t get to Lincoln Memorial._ He was scared when a voice in his mind said that to him. That was logic built merely from the imprinted order Winter gave him; he was scared that that line of reasoning worked as he nodded and reached for the hem of his shirt, pulling it off carefully. _I don’t want to be an asset. It’s making me do this. Don’t make me do this…_

_Let it happen._

He held the shirt in his hands for a moment before steeling himself and tossing it aside. Having it in front of him, having even just a plain shirt between him and Pierce felt like it could protect him. Especially now that he could not see. For a moment he felt like he should have something on his arm that he could hold in front of him like a—

Pierce turned on the shock collar for one short, sharp zap.

He lay down on his back.

“Put your arms above your head.” Pierce zapped him again when he did not immediately respond. “You do something when I tell you to do it.”

Sentinel put his arms over his head, trying not to wince as his left shoulder screamed under his muscles. He swallowed heavily, body tensing. The back of his hands, his arms, and his shoulders touched the cold metal of the floor under the rug Pierce had kicked away earlier. The contrast between the carpet on his bare back and the metal on his hands was almost surreal. He felt Pierce take each of his hands and put something solid and metal on each wrist.

At first, nothing happened. Sentinel risked testing the cuffs and found they were not doing anything other than acting as a manageable weight on his wrists. Pierce’s fingers ghosted over the skin of his wrists as he moved along the metal cuffs. He found what he was looking for and pressed a small button on the inside. Immediately Sentinel’s wrists were trapped to the metal floor. There was no give; in an instant he started to fight violently against the cuffs, forgetting Pierce was there. His feet scrambled on the rug as he tried to get leverage, and his head thrashed. Even with the pain in his left shoulder he was jerking and pulling desperately trying to get away.

“Shh. None of that now.”

Sentinel expected a shock from the collar, but what happened was much worse. Pierce must have pressed a button on the remote, because the collar pulled down the floor, sticking in the same way as the cuffs. It was such a hard jerk, Sentinel’s head cracked behind him, and he was seeing stars even with the blindfold on.

With both his head and arms immobilized, coupled with the blindfold, true panic set in. His feet slid on the rug and his hips bucked. A high whine came from behind his clenched teeth.

 _Let it happen,_ Winter whispered.

_No, no, no!_

“I gotta say, I like you this way so much more than when you were sauntering into my office,” Pierce said from far away. “This is so much better than the others, because it’s _you_. You’ve been such a thorn in our sides. And here we were thinking we’d train you like Barnes, another gun in the safe, but maybe not. Maybe we’ll just keep you like this. Scared and trapped. I don’t even want to break you yet, but even then we’ll just wipe you and start over. No, this is better. I’ll keep you, and use you, pretty boy. My little whore. We’ll train you to be Hydra’s little whore.” He chuckled. “But right now, I’m going to bleed you.”

Sentinel jerked hard as the knife Pierce had grazed his side, hissing at the shallow cut it made before clamping his mouth shut.

“No, let it out. I want to hear you scream tonight.”

It was almost like his body was not his own the way he was fighting against the cuffs. The ragged breaths through his nose were not reaching his lungs, and he was certain if he allowed his mouth to open once more he would scream and might not be able to stop.

The collar shocked him once more, painfully hard. He thought perhaps he could feel it through the metal of the floor and into his arms through the cuffs. He collapsed onto the ground panting through his nose when the shock finally finished.

“Are you done?” Pierce asked. Sentinel finally grew still, breaths heavy, mind still frantic; he flinched when Pierce put a hand on his chest. Sentinel winced under the blindfold as Pierce ran his fingers over the outline of the star on his chest. “These are almost healed. We’ll have to freshen them up.”

The knife was there, lightly carving into his chest. At first it was barely more than an itch. But then Pierce kept doing it, slicing the same lines over and over again, digging in deeper an deeper each time. Sentinel could feel the blood start welling up on his chest, slowly at first, but then more and more, hot, wet, sticky and dripping.

He felt Pierce shift away from him for a moment, and was almost grateful for the lost of contact. The feel of the carpet, the metal beneath him, and the smell of his own blood on his chest, and the sound of Pierce’s expensive shoes on the thick rug were almost overwhelming, but Pierce was not touching him, and that was a blessing even if his senses were overcompensating and almost painful from the dark of the blindfold.

He almost lost himself, body sinking into a strange oblivion. _Let it happen._ He wondered at it until a moment passed and Pierce was back, stroking up and down his chest. Then suddenly, he poured something over the cuts on Sentinel’s skin and Sentinel yelped. It stung badly and the smell of it burned in his nostrils. Pierce scratched over the scars with his fingernails. His hand meandered slowly along his abdomen, fingers lightly scratching over his muscles. Sentinel tried to keep calm, but knew his chest was heaving, his fists clenching and unclenching and his jaw aching as he tried to keep his mouth shut. His eyes squeezed shut as Pierce rubbed the blood and liquid around his skin. His feet kept sliding weakly on the carpet of their own accord as if still trying to escape.

Pierce took the knife and stabbed it through Sentinel’s hand, right in the center of his palm.

Sentinel finally cried out as the pain shot through his arm. His hand spasmed as he tried to hold it still. Pierce shook the handle of the knife making Sentinel grunt and try to pull his hand away even through the cuff. Then Pierce let go, leaving the knife embedded in his hand.

Pierce left the knife in his hand. Sentinel froze with a gasp as another thin, cold metal point ran up and down his ribs, towards his shoulder and around the sensitive skin of his armpit. Pierce gasped back mockingly before chuckling. He traced invisible patterns all along Sentinel’s chest; up towards his collarbones and neck and down towards his hips, teasing the skin under the edge of Sentinel’s pants. He kept trying not to flinch and jerk, but it was as if Pierce knew the places on him that were most sensitive. Sentinel whimpered when Pierce shifted down and started running the tip of the knife along the soles of his feet.

Sentinel screamed again when the second knife was jammed into his left foot.

A third knife was in the muscle of his hip a moment later.

A fourth near his rib; it felt like the air was being pushed out of his lungs when it happened. All Sentinel could do was grunt when it went in.

A fifth trailed up and down his legs for what felt like hours. The ground underneath Sentinel was starting to grow warm and sticky with small rivulets of blood that slowly leaked down his skin. It felt like his skin was made to flinch at contact; where the knife grazed skin, where the air merely touched skin, where it felt like the very atmosphere shifted on his skin. He could almost imagine Pierce’s face in his mind’s eye, and that made the experience all the more terrible. One second he was dead-eyed and stony, doing this merely to inflict pain; the next he was grinning maniacally, enjoying every second of the torture. He could not decide which option was worse. Sentinel was trembling where he lay, growing almost nauseous as his muscles contracted and spasmed under his skin, anxious and dreading where the next knife was going to go.

_Let it happen._

The fifth knife was jammed into the meat of his thigh, through his pants. He screamed once more. His body jerked and pain shot through where the five knives were embedded in his skin.

“You’ve been doing so well, I think you deserve a treat.”

A new knife started to carve a thin line on his stomach, and then another right next to it. Sentinel felt the scratch of Pierce fiddling with the knife on the cuts before he felt a strange pull around them. It burned in a way Sentinel had never felt before, despite all the pain he had been put through these last few days. It was not as terrible as the shock collar of even the knives still in his body, but there was a wrongness to it that he could not identify.

“Open your mouth, pretty boy.” He could barely shake his head with the collar holding him down but he tried anyway. Pierce laughed over him. “What’s the matter? Don’t want your treat?”

The knife slid up and down his cheek, and then over his lips. Sentinel could smell the blood on the blade. “Open your mouth, or I’ll open it for you.”

_Let it happen._

Sentinel pushed down a wave of terror and opened his mouth. Pierce was holding something sticky above his lips; a thin sliver of something that tasted like copper, like salt. He could not identify it.

For some reason, as Pierce slipped it past his lips and into his mouth, it reminded him of the way Winter’s lips felt on his own the night before; warm, full of life, tasting like blood.

_His blood._

He jerked against the restraints, trying to spit out the piece of his skin — _his skin, his skin_ — that Pierce had put in his mouth, but it was too late, the damage was done. He could feel the skin slip down his throat. Pierce was holding his jaw closed, stroking under his chin to work his throat muscles. He screamed through his teeth. His gag reflex started, but it was not enough; the piece of skin slid down his esophagus. The knives burned in his flesh as he thrashed, he could feel wave after wave of revulsion run down his spine, he fought against the restraints and he did not stop until Pierce shocked him with the collar. He screamed and his muscles clenched as the familiar, painful electricity surged through him. The blindfold was wet against his skin, cold air chilling his face.

“Didn’t enjoy your treat?” Pierce asked with a low laugh.

_Let it happen. Get out. Get to Lincoln Memorial._

_I’m not going to make it._

_You are strong. You will be a good asset._

_I don’t want to be an asset._

_Let it happen. Get out. Get to Lincoln Memorial._

“Now, I’m just curious. Did Rumlow just not notice the bruising on your shoulder, or does he not care?” Pierce poked him in his left shoulder, and Sentinel jerked at the pain, a small groan falling from his lips. “It’s dislocated. How long has it been like this?”

Sentinel did not realize that Pierce was actually asking him to answer before the collar gave him a short, sharp shock.

“How long?”

“The chair,” he whispered, words wet and raspy in his throat.

“It’s been this way since you were wiped? Your super-soldier healing isn’t working on it?” Sentinel did not respond. “That’s interesting. We should have the technicians take a look at that. Do some experiments, maybe. Your body can do so much, but it can’t pop a shoulder back in its socket. It’s going to need surgery now, you realize.” He pinched Sentinel’s shoulder roughly, and Sentinel let out a sob, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain. “Or maybe we’ll just cut it off. You can match your boyfriend. We’ll give you a new arm, how would you like that?”

Pierce was trailing yet another knife around his bad shoulder now. With a swift motion the sixth knife was plunged into his flesh. Sentinel screamed once again as the pain burned through his body. Pierce rocked the handle of the knife back and forth, and Sentinel could feel it tearing deeper and deeper into his muscles. His screams died out on his throat, deteriorating into grunts and whines.

His face was wet with tears, and Pierce ran a thumb under the blindfold — he flinched again at the touch, braced again for Rumlow to use the shock collar before remembering the other man was not here to punish him for flinching. He might have died by now considering how much he flinched here on the floor if Rumlow had seen. Sentinel could picture his manic face grinning down at him as he died from the shock collar. He could not think clearly anymore. He felt his eyelashes frantic against the cloth on his face, and he felt sweat on his body.

“A matched set. Now there’s something I can get behind.” It sounded like Pierce was far away. Sentinel felt like he was melting into the ground beneath him. He was shaking so hard he was certain his skin, his muscles, his bones, his nerves would turn into liquid and he would just puddle away. He started to feel cold deep down in his stomach; was he trembling or was he shivering? It was cold, it was so cold. _Let it happen._

“Your friends think you’re dead, did you know that? You might as well be. We killed you in that chair.”

He was sinking further into the floor, his eyes flickering under the blindfold.

It felt like he had two voices in his head; both were screaming at him. One voice was his own, but it sounded so much stronger, so much braver than him. It told him to fight, to stop melting, to keep screaming. _Be present for all of this, every knife, every wound, and when the blindfold’s off, glare until your eyes burn. Fucking fight this._ He wanted to. God, he wanted to. He could feel it in his very soul; he was meant to fight, he could do it all day. There was no such thing as too much pain and if he fought hard enough, Pierce would just kill him out of frustration. Something in Sentinel thought that was almost a win. He kept trying to do what it said. He had to fight. He was supposed to fight.

The second voice was Winter’s. And Bucky’s. They were the same. Same caution, same strength. _Let it happen,_ said Winter. _Sometimes I think you like being punched,_ said Bucky. He had hissed when Bucky was cleaning one of Pierce’s stab wound with iodine. No, not a stab wound, a cut on his head after a Hydra raid. They sat back in camp in front of a fire and it stung, even though the cut was already healing.

_“You always say that. I’m fine, Buck. I heal now, it’s better ’n when I was scrawny, isn’t it?”_

_“We rescued the damn nuns, and you could’ve booked it after that but you stayed. I don’t care what size you are, that was stupid, and you know better. You got too much fight in ya.”_

_“Can’t fight destiny. Someone’s gotta fight for everyone else, why not me?”_

_“Damn it, it’s not des—“ Bucky hissed and turned away. “You’re gonna get yourself killed.”_

_“That’s not—“_

_“Sometimes you just gotta let things happen. It’s not fair but that’s life. You gotta live to fight another day.”_

_“I can’t just do nothing.”_

_“I can’t keep doing this! I can’t keep seeing you like this!”_

_“Buck…”_

_“Please, Stevie.”_

The second voice, Winter, kept whispering in Sentinel’s ear. _Let it happen. Get out. Get to Lincoln Memorial. I can’t keep seeing you like this._ He did not want to let it happen; he could not let this happen.

“Imagine what they’d think if they saw you here,” Pierce said. He sounded so far away. Nothing like Winter’s screaming and whispering in his brain. “A little pain whore, and we haven’t even gotten to the whoring.”

_Let it happen. Get out. Get to Lincoln Memorial._

“Would you like that? Just a toy for Hydra to fuck all day? We can program you to like that. Program you to only come when we say, only when a Hydra dick is in you.” Pierce’s voice was hazy, muddled, coming to him through a fog, the words made no sense as Sentinel was fading away.

“We’ll make you beg for it,” said hot breath on his ear.

Sentinel realized it was the imprint, gaining control, forcing him away from himself. This was what Winter ordered him to do. _Let it happen._ He would have sobbed if he could have; this cannot be what he meant. Winter surely did not want him to just lie here and take this, but he had no choice. He was shutting down, he was cold, _the fight is burned out of you._ He wanted to scream but even that was leaving him. His body was starting to go limp, exhausted from fighting; fighting against Pierce, fighting against the imprint. At least he had stopped trembling.

Another knife, this time in his other leg. He barely felt it, a small gasp left his lips.

_Let it happen. Get out. Get to Lincoln Memorial._

_I don’t want to be an asset._

The fingers on his right hand, the hand with the knife still embedded in it, twitched. It should have hurt; something told Sentinel it was hurting, but it was so far away. A distant thrum of horror in him was screaming to get up, to fight, to run.

_Let it happen._

His eyes closed under the blindfold.

_“Please Stevie, let it happen…”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter summary for potential triggers: In this chapter, Pierce uses the magcuffs to pin Steve/Sentinel to the floor and tortures him. He cuts Steve, stabs him multiple times with different knives, and cuts off a piece of Steve's skin and forces him to eat it. He also discusses him and other Hydra members using Steve sexually, but no actual rape/sexual act takes place.
> 
> •••
> 
> So... Pierce is super evil. And I'm a bad person for writing this. Sorry, sorry! I literally just was sitting and thinking "How much _worse_ can I make this?" (I hope it is sufficiently 'the worst' at this point. I don't know if I can get worser). I AM SO SORRY.
> 
> Might be a few days until the next chapter; I've got a job interview on Monday (freaking out! wish me luck!), which is taking up all of my mental energy.


	11. Chapter 11

When he opened his eyes again, he was still wearing the blindfold. A shift of his body told him that the knives were still there. Wincing and biting back a whimper, he realized he could feel the skin tearing around them as he moved, as if it had been hours or days; as if he had started healing around them. It was new fresh pain when he moved, so he went still, but could not help the gasp that fell from his lips.

He froze at the sound, waiting for something to happen. But there was nothing. He could not be sure, but he thought he might have been alone in the room. Pierce had just left him, knives embedded in his body, trickling blood on the carpet, cuffs still sticking to the floor, collar still sticking to the floor, blindfolded.

He had no idea how long it had been. He lay trapped on the floor trying to think. His mind had completely shut off; there was no memory of anything after the seventh knife. He was not even sure he wanted to know what Pierce had done to him.

Sentinel let out a soft sigh, giving another experimental, utterly futile pull at the cuffs. _One of three mission tasks completed,_ he imagined Winter’s voice in his mind. The mechanical, dead voice he only heard when Winter deigned to talk to handlers. Not the other voices; the one that said Sentinel was strong, or the smooth one that called him ‘Stevie.’ 

One of three tasks completed. He had to get out of here. He had to get to Lincoln Memorial.

He twisted his wrist around to try and find the button Pierce had pushed on the cuffs, but it was no good. He felt stupid for even thinking that could be an option. Then he tried the exact same thing again with a huff. Over and over, the pain in his hand, in his shoulder was nothing compared to the determination to get out of her, to get to Lincoln Memorial.

When he exhausted that option, he paused, holding his breath, straining to hear something, anything, beyond the room outside the door. He thought perhaps last time he had been here, he had heard steps outside as people walked the cement halls, but now there was nothing.

Another wave of cold panic filled him; it felt different from when the cuffs and collar had first connected with the ground, trapping him in place. It was a panic borne of realization: He could not get out. Even without being able to finish the mission Winter had given him, Sentinel felt dread in his bones. The hopelessness of his situation was becoming clearer and clearer. He was trapped.

He tried to steady his breathing, tried to think, but his mind was jumbled; half with fear, half with the deep, imprinted need to do what Winter had told him. If Pierce and Rumlow were fraying threads; Winter was now a steel chain. Sentinel could see his blue eyes past the blindfold, could see his blue eyes in the snow in Europe, could see his blue eyes in the cell in the dim flickering fluorescent light.

He had to get out of here. His mind kept racing with more and more extreme ways to do so. Were his neck not fastened down he would tear at his arm with his teeth. He could break his hand if he pulled hard enough; bringing the knife along with his right hand through the cuff. He did not care about the pain.

He kept thinking these thoughts, yanking his hands at the cuff all the while when the door finally opened. He froze, tense and cold in an instant. His ears were straining; all he could hear was a barely perceptible breath, a strange, low creak as if something was straining against being pulled taut. Then a click, the light being turned on; the faintest shine of brightness peaking out at the corner of the blindfold.

“Jesus Christ,” a man’s voice murmured. In an instant whoever it was crashing to the floor next to Sentinel, hands hovering over the knives, whatever he was holding clattering to the ground, the door closing behind him. He flinched and tried to pull away but could not “Jesus Christ, Cap.”

Sentinel flinched again as the man’s fingers moved to his face, starting to peel the blindfold off over his head.

“Shh. Easy big guy. It’s okay. Let’s just get this off you.”

He blinked in the bright, almost painful light, vision hazy after being under the blindfold for so long. After a moment he could focus on the man in front of him. He had sandy blond hair and a bandage over his eyebrow. He beamed down at Sentinel, before glancing at his wounds. He pulled out some gauze and a small bottle with rubbing alcohol from a small duffle bag he set down at his side.

“God, they really did a number on you, man.”He tapped his ear. “Nat, I owe you a beer,” he said out loud. “Yup, still breathing, a little worse for the wear.”

Sentinel stared; uncertain what was happening, what he meant, if the man was talking to him. The man reached up and started fiddling with the cuffs on Sentinel’s wrists. After a few moments they released from their grip on the floor, andthen were off his wrists entirely. The man took Sentinel’s right hand gently in his own and brought it down, laying gingerly at Sentinel’s side, careful of the knife. Sentinel could barely move his left; the dislocated shoulder, the knife still embedded in the muscle. The man murmured something about at least getting it into a sling in a minute, but the words floated over Sentinel’s head.

He started on the collar, and was able to deactivate its pull to the floor. Sentinel tried to get away from the man then. Like a bolt of lightning, body not his own. His good foot was slipping on the carpet, and he was only fueled by latent panic, adrenaline and dread pooling in his core. He did not get very far, feeling the knives tear into him as he moved, screaming out at their burn. His muscles ached from being held still for so long, his breathing heavy in his throat. _Get out. Get to Lincoln Memorial._ He was almost ready to start running, but his body was screaming as he moved. He crashed down onto his back with a grunt of pain, trying to slide away, gasping and frantically looking around the room for something, anything that could help. There was relief too, he could move. He was almost free. These last few days left him with the knowledge of what a blessing that really was.

“Woah, woah. Easy, big guy. You’ve been through the wringer. Chill. Hey, hey, chill. It’s okay.” He had his hands raised the moment Sentinel pulled away, keeping them in plain sight; cautious, visible. “Listen, we gotta get that collar off you, we gotta get the knives out of you. Let’s work on that, okay?”

Sentinel stared at the man. He did not wear the same uniform Rumlow and the other Hydra agents did. In any other reality that should not have been enough. He at least knew Rumlow, and something flashed in his mind about the devil that you know. But something deep inside of Sentinel calmed down slowly. The man’s warm brown eyes were far kinder than anyone else he had met here and finally he nodded. Besides, if the man was going to work on his wounds like the technicians had worked on Winter it might be better, he told himself. He could get to Lincoln Memorial more easily.

He lay back down, nodding and the man resumed his work on the collar. Sentinel grew a little tense, waiting for the collar to shock him and maybe the other man both. _“The collar stays on, Cap._ ” It did not happen, but after a moment the man stopped, giving Sentinel a sad look. 

“I don’t think I can get it off,” he said at last. Sentinel was not surprised. The collar was a part of him. Would Winter even recognize him without it? He gave the man a small, one shouldered shrug from his place on the ground. The man nodded and looked down Sentinel’s body. It did not leave Sentinel feeling exposed and wrong, like it had when Pierce and Rumlow looked at him.

“So, which one you want out first?” the man asked after a moment. Sentinel blinked at him. “Okay, dealer’s choice. Let’s just get started, I guess.” He put a hand on the handle of the first knife, one of the one’s in his leg. “This is going to hurt. I’m sorry.”

One by one he began removing the knives, washing the wounds and wrapping them swiftly. Each pull reopened the cuts and Sentinel bit back grunts of pain, bit back small hisses as the clear rubbing alcohol was poured and the wounds bandaged. The one in his ribs was arguably the worst, possibly damaging his lung, the man above him said, but taking that one out that did not hurt nearly as badly as the one in his shoulder. He could not hold back the scream that tore through his throat. The man’s hands were quick and gentle though, so that was a small blessing.

Soon there were no more knives in him, and the cuts Pierce had carved into his chest and stomach were cleaned and bandaged. He might have been imagining it but he could already feel his body start healing, but that was impossible; Sentinel knew people did not heal so quickly. But he had been grown in a bottle, hadn’t he? _You are not human,_ said Pierce’s voice. _Super-soldier healing._ What did that even mean?

Sentinel lay panting on the ground as the man above him pulled out a water bottle and offered some to him. He drank eagerly, suddenly desperate for it. It was the first thing he had ever had that was not the protein shakes.

“Slow down, it’s alright,” the man said pulling away the water. He tapped under Sentinel’s shoulder and helped him sit up. Sentinel sat quietly for a little while, the man telling him to sip the water slowly. The man next started to him gave him a running commentary about things he did not understand: Project Insight, Nat, this guy named Sam who you met the other day, dude this guy has wings it’s nuts, Hydra, Nick Fury, more Nat, more about ‘this Sam guy’ and his ‘fucking rad wings, man,’ a fight on the overpass with Rumlow and his people. It was almost background noise, keeping Sentinel there and grounded, able to catch his breath.

“You’re awfully quiet there, big guy. Doing alright?” Sentinel stared at him. The man smiled warmly back. He thought he should recognize him, but he did not. “Cap?”

There it was again; _Cap._ It did not sound nearly as bad on this man’s lips as it did on Rumlow’s. He wished he could understand what was going on.

“Who are you?” Sentinel finally asked softly.

“Oh, shit.” The man’s face fell; he looked away from Sentinel for a moment. When he turned back he gave a shaky but warm smile. “I’m Clint,” he said. “I’m a friend. I’m gonna get you out of here.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Oh thank god, he's rescued/safe... _for now._ )
> 
> I'm Betsy, and I [tumbl](http://batraquomancy.tumblr.com), and my life is a sitcom somtimes, and I like you all and thanks for reading, and run-on sentences are great, and you're all swell! :)


	12. Chapter 12

“Okay, we’re going to just go out the way I came in. Inelegant, but not all of us are Natasha and I don’t want to get lost. Besides, the place is practically empty. Knocked out a few techie looking guys on the way in, but haven’t seen anyone else.”

Clint stood up, and held out his hand, helping Sentinel to his feet. He reached into the duffle bag and pulled out some clothing, and set some shoes and socks on the floor in front of him. Sentinel eyed it all warily, but got dressed, pulling off the torn, bloody pants he had been left in and slipping gingerly into the clean, soft clothes. Jeans, a tshirt, a hooded sweatshirt with a zipper. The luxury of a pair of plain, black, cotton briefs. It was all familiar but strange at the same time.

As he sat down to tie his shoes —muscle memory taking over in a way that left Sentinel feeling unsettled — he watched as Clint took a long thin arrow, and nocked it in the bow, stepping towards the door.

Sentinel stood behind him and Clint reached towards his side and pulled something from a band at his leg handing it to Sentinel. Sentinel felt the familiar weight of it in his hand for an instant before jerking back, realization hitting him like a hammer, dropping the gun on the ground. He stumbled and fell back down onto the floor, careening back away from Clint. All he could see was the man he killed, eyes covered, mouth gagged. He scrambled away, staring at the gun, backing into a corner.

“Please don’t make me, please don’t make me,” he heard someone whisper far away. “Please don’t make me.”

“Oh shit, shit _, shit_. Uhh. Okay.” Clint very slowly put down the bow and arrows and held up his hands stepping towards Sentinel. “You don’t need to take the gun. I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to.” He ran his hand through his hair; “Okay, what are the standard operating procedures for super-soldier with amnesia? Who is terrified of guns? Okay, okay… think.”

Sentinel kept shifting back and forth between Clint, the gun on the floor, and the closed door. _Get out. Get to Lincoln Memorial._ He was almost ready just to make a run for it when—

“Do you know where you are?” Clint asked.

“Hydra,” Sentinel said after a moment. “The room with the carpet.”

“Jesus, okay. You’re right, you’re in a secret Hydra base. You know me; I’m Clint, I’m with the Avengers. We’re the good guys. I like pizza and I shoot a bow and arrow, which is really weird, I already know. You’re one of us. You’re an Avenger. We’ve been looking for you for about five days and fighting bad guys. Hydra’s the bad guys. We’re going to get you out of here. I’m going to get you out of here.”

Sentinel did not know what to say to that. _Avengers_ made that pain behind his eyes start up once more, but he shook it away. Had it been five days since the chair? He had no idea. It seemed like a lifetime, it seemed like no time at all. He only really knew one thing.

“I have to go to Lincoln Memorial,” Sentinel ventured.

Clint blinked at him. “That’s a normal response to this situation, sure. What’s at Lincoln Memorial?”

“Winter.”

“What? Cap, it’s April—”

“No, Winter is there. He told me to go there and he’ll find me.”

“Okay, who is Winter?”

“He’s an asset. He told me to get out. He told me to go to Lincoln Memorial.”

“Huh, okay. Okay, okay…” Clint stared at him, confusion clear on his face. “Why don’t we get out of here first, and then think about moseying over to the tourist spots?”

“I have to get to Lincoln Memorial.”

Clint sighed, face falling. Sentinel glanced over and saw the gun on the floor. Clint saw him look. Their eyes met, and both of them tensed for a moment. Sentinel thought about grabbing it and just running, never looking back. He could barely look at the thing without thinking of the man he had shot, Rumlow’s praise; bile rose in him even as he thought about it now. But the mission Winter had given him. He would take the gun and use it against anyone who tried to stop him, even Clint if he had to, though he truly did not want to. Then he would keep running until the soles of his feet bled if that was what it took to get to Lincoln Memorial. He knew this as clearly as he knew the exact color of Winter’s eyes. He stared at Clint, hoping for some reason he would not have to leave this stranger to do it.

“Please.”

Clint nodded slowly. “Okay. Let’s go to Lincoln Memorial.”

 

“Put your hood up, just in case, man.”

_“Why in god’s name is it called a hoodie?”_

_“It’s got a hood, Cap.”_

_“Original.”_

Sentinel winced as the memory burned into his mind. Clint kept up a string of chatter and every few sentences Sentinel would be hit with another wave of pain as his mind started making connections that he struggled to keep up with.

 

He spared one last glance at the room with the carpet. Hatred rose in his throat, cold and bitter and—

_“Don’t go thinking such thoughts, son. Can’t be changing anything thinking those thoughts. You always get so angry on behalf of everyone else.”_

_“Sorry, ma.”_

_“Don’t be sorry. It’s not bad to want to protect people, but you don’t have to go hatin’ on anyone to do it._ ”

He looked at the blood on the floor, the torn up clothes. The mother who’s face he couldn’t remember was wrong this time. Hate was the only thing he could do.

 

Clint glanced into the open doors through the hall. He was right; it was empty here now. Sentinel was unsettled; missing the activity he had not realized he had grown used to. He pulled his bad arm tighter into his chest. They passed a room with computers and Clint fished something out of his pocket and tossed it in. It stuck to one of the large tower consoles and started to glow blue.

“One of Stark’s toys; should send some stuff to his server. We’re multitasking.”

_“Secure the engine room, then find me a date.”_

_“I’m multitasking.”_

 

They stepped outside and he looked up and saw the sky for the first time, for the millionth time. He stared up even as it burned his eyes and burned behind his eyes. He might have been screaming it hurt so badly and it felt so familiar. He could not be sure but he thought perhaps that his brain was melting in his skull for how fast and how hot everything burned. Clint touched him on the arm. He fell back against the wall of the building and crashed to his knees, vomiting.

“Christ, Nat. There’s something really wrong,” he heard Clint say on another world where maybe the sky was not so painfully blue. “Change of plans, I’m taking him to the hospital.”

“No!” Sentinel tried to stand, tried to move but his legs were not his own, his body was too heavy and every movement hurt. “Lincoln Memorial. Please, I have to—“

A cold hand on his forehead, not cold like Winter’s metal hand, it was not right, it was not right.

“Nat, he’s burning up, he keeps going on about Lincoln Memorial. He says he has to meet a guy there.” A pause. Sentinel kept trying to push himself up to standing, but could barely move and the feel of the cement against his face was familiar. Clint knelt in front of him, meeting his eyes, and for a moment Sentinel believed there was another imprint in his brain and he was going to be trapped with shackles, with knives in his skin, with blindfolds. He whimpered and pulled back but there was nowhere to go. Clint put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay. You’re okay.” Sentinel closed his eyes and turned into the wall. “Did Winter order you to go to Lincoln Memorial?”

Sentinel nodded, eyes still closed.

“He said yes, Nat. Jesus Christ.” Another pause. Clint ran comforting circles on Sentinel’s back as Sentinel leaned into the wall. “Okay, guess we’ll meet you there. Will you guys be alright on your own?” he said. After a moment he sighed and looked down at Sentinel. “Can you walk?”

Sentinel nodded and Clint slowly helped him to his feet. They lumbered onwards, Sentinel staring down at the cement; the sky too bright for his eyes.

 

Clint unlocked the doors of a sleek black car with a chirp from the remote on his keyring. Sentinel stared at it for a long moment.

_“Can’t run everywhere.”_

“Can’t run everywhere.”

“What was that?”

Sentinel shook his head closing his eyes against the pain, and getting in.

 

They drove, Sentinel stared at his feet at the ground of the car the whole way there. Every time he looked up he would see a street sign he recognized, an advertisement on a billboard; everything was painful flashes in his mind and he was not sure how much more his brain could handle. Clint had blessedly stopped talking, and they drove in silence.

 

Lincoln Memorial was empty; something told Sentinel that it was not supposed to be but he could not say why. It was both larger and smaller than he imagined; all of his gears churning to get here and now that he was here, that it was right in front of him he realized he did not know what to expect. They slowly lumbered up the stairs and stepped around to the side of the large building. Clint got him to one of the large columns near the back away from any eyes —

_“Did you know that the thirty-six columns represent the thirty-six states of the Union at the time Lincoln was president?”_

_“I’ve read your file, Nat; the uncanny amount of information you have about D.C. tourist spots doesn’t quite add up.”_

_“Yeah, I know, but it’s not like they can put the fun stuff about me in a file.”_

— and he all but collapsed onto the ground, leaning against the base of the stone column and starting to shiver. It was like his body was not his own for how it shook with relief at finishing his task; for how it shook with pain and with fear at the surge of memories and uncertainty. He pulled his left arm into his stomach and tried to hold it still from his trembling.

He was here. He had done it. He could almost imagine Winter smiling at him as he sat here staring out and seeing nothing. Would Winter say he was good? His head was throbbing; now that he did not have his mission to focus on the pain of memories was growing worse. He had no way to parse through all of them. Contextless flashes burned behind his eyelids and left him feeling nauseous and untethered.

“You okay?” Clint asked next to him. Sentinel did not even realize he had been there.

“It hurts,” Sentinel replied, eyes squeezing shut. “My head— everything—“

“Here,” Clint reached into his bag and pulled out another water bottle and a jar of pills. “Aspirin. It’s not much, but it might help a little.” Sentinel took some of the pills and leaned back against the column with a groan as Clint started talking. “They must’ve cleared the place out when they noticed shit going down at the Triskilion. Look, you can almost see it.” Sentinel glanced over to where Clint gestured and saw planes and helicopters flying over a building in the distance.

“What’s happening?”

“Hydra’s trying to take over the world.”

_“You’re an asset of Hydra.”_

_“No, not Hydra’s. I’m yours.”_

Sentinel stared, blinking against the pain. There was a small explosion from one side of the building and he and Clint both flinched. Helicopters were flying everywhere; he could almost hear the gunfire. That was where Winter was. His breath started coming heavier in his lungs, and his heart beat a little faster as he stared at the activity at the Triskilion. Winter was there, that’s where he should be.

He tried to get up. He could not move. Too tired, too lost.

Winter did not have an order for what to do after he got to Lincoln Memorial, Sentinel realized. Was he supposed to meet Winter here? Or could he leave, fight, help? He looked at his trembling hands and knew he would not be any good at all. He leaned back down against the column watching the Triskilion helplessly, pulling his arm tighter into his body, eyes stinging, heart pounding; helpless.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In retrospect, was Clint really the best one to deal with with mind-wiped!Steve? Probably not, but he's doing his golly gosh darned best, and he's my favorite, so whoops.
> 
> I'm Betsy, I'm secretly three small, many-legged monsters hiding out in a flesh suit, and sometimes I spill my emotions on [tumblr](http://batraquomancy.tumblr.com) where I don't actually talk about this fic/marvel as much as I should, because I'm the worst.


	13. Chapter 13

They sat there for hours. Clint would occasionally talk at the person in his ear, but the conversations made little sense, and probably would not have been clearer even if Sentinel could hear the other side. Clint was listening in his ear, and Sentinel was happy just to be quiet, to watch, to breathe. Everything hurt. Clint pulled out some snack bars from his bag and gave them all to Sentinel. He slowly started picking at them. His stomach rumbled inside of him, but the solid food was heavy and hard to chew. He put one bar in the pocket of his hoodie for Winter. He did not even think about his own hunger; he wondered if he might starve before he would give up Winter’s snack bar. A very simple voice in his brain told him that if he saved it, Winter would have a reason to come back to him. He was too tired to argue with himself; there was no way for Winter to know he even had it for him. But Winter would come and he could give it to him. He had to make sure Winter ate too.

 _Bucky_. He had to make sure Bucky ate. He also knew that Bucky would scoff at him and give him flack for not keeping his own self fed, but Sentinel did not care. Saving the bar for Bucky was as easy as breathing. Except breathing wasn’t easy, he couldn’t—

_“Did you get those asthma cigarettes?”_

_“Waste of money, Buck, they don’t help.”_

_“They might help.”_

_“They don’t.”_

_“Stevie…”_

Sentinel shuddered as the sun started getting lower on the horizon. He could not remember what his mother called him in his memories, he could only vaguely wrap his head around ‘Cap,’ he knew in his bones he would answer to ‘Sentinel’ until the day he died; he would probably even answer to ‘Asset’ and that terrified him. But in his memories Winter called him ‘Stevie,’ and that left him feeling like the sun was not so far away, like his skin was slowly becoming his own again.

But he knew that name was not quite right; that was what Bucky called him. It was sacred, secret, not his name to the rest of the world. He wanted Winter to call him that. He desperately wanted that word on those lips even if it was just one more time.

He closed his eyes and saw Winter, Bucky, Winter falling from a great height as Sentinel reached out for him and could not catch him in time. He bit back a scream at the image, squeezing against the column.

“It might help if you talk about it,” Clint said. “Wanna try? I know I’m chatty as hell, but I can shut up when necessary.”

Sentinel looked over at him; the offer seemed genuine. Out here in the late afternoon light, Sentinel could now see that not only was his face bandaged but badly bruised as well, along with the muscles on his arms. He had taken a real beating before he had found Sentinel. But he was still smiling, still trying to ease whatever burdens Sentinel had. He nodded at the man.

“So, what’s the first thing you remember?”

_Winter. His mother. Sometimes I think you like being punched. That sometimes means tearing the old one down, and that makes enemies. Ocean air. I have to put her in the water. Bucky no! Take my hand! You are an asset of Hydra, designation; Sentinel. Nat, red; a red curtain. Nothing, I’m just a kid from Brooklyn. Cinnamon. Stevie. A man with a red skull._

Sentinel blinked at Clint. “I don’t know.”

“Let me rephrase that; you’ve been with Hydra for five days. What’s the first thing you remember from that?”

Sentinel nodded once more; that was a much easier question. He turned, stared out past the column, towards the horizon, seeing nothing. “I woke up in the chair. Rumlow was there. He told me what I was, my designation. They did not give me the basic programming foundation. He took me to another room and they had me imprint on him, Alexander Pierce and Winter. Since then they have been training me, and testing me, and—“

“Torturing you.”

“That is the word for it, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“It was just something else I had to do. Just another part of being there.” He looked out over D.C. and wondered if he was not supposed to be there still. Nothing made sense.

“How long has your arm been like that?”

“Been like what?”

“Dislocated, barely functioning, black with bruises that you shouldn’t have because you’re a super-soldier and have super-healing.”

“Since before the chair. Pierce said he was going to cut it off, give me a metal one like Winter’s.”

Clint did not respond. Sentinel felt his eyes on his skin and finally turned and glanced towards him, avoiding meeting his eyes. Clint had a strange expression on his face, brows furrowed.

“Tell me more about Winter,” he asked.

“Why?”

“Humor me?” Sentinel shut his mouth and turned away. “Listen, hey, no; he’s obviously doing some double-agent stuff if he was trying to get you out, which means I’m okay with him, don’t worry. At least I think I am. I won’t know unless you tell me a little more about him.”

Sentinel could tell he was being manipulated, but it did not even seem like Clint was doing it on purpose. He was scared, Sentinel realized. Scared of Winter, the same way the technicians were when Winter spoke.

“He’s not a double agent. He’s— he was there with me. He was like me, just for longer. He had a collar like mine sometimes, but sometimes he didn’t. He was trained. They were going to train me like they trained him.”

“Christ.”

“But then Pierce said they might not. He said they would train me, program me for something else.”

“What else?”

 _“I’ll keep you and use you, pretty boy.”_ Pierce whispered. _“We can program you to like this.”_

“Hydra’s little whore,” he parroted back. The words made Clint flinch violently, which startled Sentinel. He stared at Clint who stared back at him, eyes wide. He knew what the words meant, but in only a vague way. He thought such things were terrible, of course, but there were more immediate, terrible things in his mind. He would have to experience it to understand the horror on Clint’s face, he thought. Right now it did not mean enough; he had been emptied of comprehension. Could it be worse than the blindfold? He thought perhaps if both were happening at once, then yes. Could it be worse than the chair? He could not say, but he thought no. The chair was something else entirely. Even thinking of it now made him want to vomit all over again.

“Jesus Christ,” Clint said at last, rubbing his face with his hand. “Okay, let’s change the subject because I know I’m gonna accidentally make things worse if I keep going down that road.”

Sentinel stared ahead of him once more waiting for Clint to ask whatever he was going to ask.

“Tell me about the chair.”

Sentinel’s eyes closed. He did not want to think about it. “It hurts.”

“Do you know what it does?”

“Winter said it emptied me. So Hydra could fill me.”

“How do you know Winter?”

“I—“ he tried to find the words. “Winter said I knew him before the chair. I _did_ know him before the chair. I called him something before the chair. He said what I said made him unstable.”

“What did you call him?”

Sentinel did not respond right away; it was a secret, he was not supposed to tell them what he remembered; that he did not like the cold, and he called Winter something that made him think of cinnamon and the ocean. He was not supposed to tell Hydra these things, but Clint was not Hydra.

“I called him ‘Bucky.’”

“‘Bucky?’ As in Bucky Barnes, as in James Buchanan Barnes, as in your best friend? Jesus fuckingChrist, are you fucking kid—“

Clint kept talking but Sentinel was frozen. He was not even sure he was breathing. He could not even scream for the pain that was flashing behind his eyes. _James Barnes. James Bucky Barnes. James. Folks call me Bucky, not Jimmy thanks. James Buchanan like the fucking president isn’t that a fucking piece of work? What was my pa thinking? Sargent James Barnes, shipping out with the 107_ _th_ _. Barnes, James Buchanan, Sargent, 32557038. Bucky, Bucky Barnes, Bucky, Bucky,_ ** _Bucky_** _._

“Cap, you okay?” Clint asked. Sentinel curled in on himself, putting his head between his knees. It was real, Bucky was real. The name James ‘Bucky’ Barnes was suddenly all he could see or hear or think. It was overwhelming and raw and Sentinel was not sure if he was able to even keep his heart beating for how badly everything burned. He was going to vomit again, or worse, melt out of his very body and turn into a puddle on the stone ground and then Winter would never find him, and that sent a wave of panic through him once more.

Clint put a soft hand on his back and ran small circles over the hoodie. “We’ll just stop talking for a bit, how about that?”

They fell back into silence. Sentinel was shaking badly against the column; it was almost worse than drowning under the navy blindfold. He was trying not to think about Winter, Bucky, James, Winter, James Buchanan Barnes because it hurt so badly, but he could not stop himself. Even with his eyes open he could see Winter’s face in a thousand different lights, in a thousand different worlds, a thousand different ages, with a thousand different expressions. He could feel Winter clapping him on the back, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, running a warm hand over his neck. He could hear Winter’s, Bucky’s, Winter’s, Bucky’s voice. He was speaking that way that left Sentinel warm inside, so different from the clipped, mechanical way he spoke to Rumlow or the handlers. He bit back a sob as his mind would not stop him from imagining Winter saying _“I love you, Stevie,”_ over and over and over. He could not stop it, and he hated that it only came with pain.

He did not understand anything, and it felt like it was killing him to remember.

Sentinel finally looked up from between his knees when Clint let out a low curse. He looked over to where Clint was staring and saw the Triskilion burning. He was jerking up in an instant watching as one of the large planes, but not a plane — _we’re gonna neutralize a lot of threats before they even happen_ — crashed into the building. He tried pulling himself fully to his feet, scrambling against gravity and sore muscles, gripping onto the column. Clint gave him a hand up and they stood helplessly watching the tower start to collapse, watching the not-planes crash into the river. And it was good, and it was terrible, and his head still was screaming, and he could feel his wounds slowly closing in his body and he could feel the metal collar still around his neck. He did not know if Winter would come back for him. His head was screaming.

“Please,” he whispered, not even realizing the words were leaving his lips. “I don’t understand.”

“Me neither, big guy.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A morning chapter! What a treat! Coffee is a heck of a thing, isn't it? Coffee coffee coffee, yay yay yay! :D
> 
> So the next handful of chapters are going to be less, you know, torturing Steve Rogers (alas!), and a little more talking/figuring stuff out, but don't worry, it'll still be sufficiently angsty and painful and there's still a lot of bad Hydra stuff going to happen. It'll be great, there's a scene in my head that's loosely inspired by the movie 127 Hours, so make of that what you will. :) (what you should make of it is that I am a terrible person... whoops).
> 
> As always, I've been Betsy, I love coffee and [my tumblr](http://batraquomancy.tumblr.com) is simultaneously keeping me sane and pushing me to the edges of sanity. It's neato! Thanks all for reading! Wow, I'm perky! Wow, coffeee!


	14. Chapter 14

Clint hid them both from a police officer who was keeping the area clear. They ducked back against a wall at the side of the memorial, shadowed and quiet. There was a small thrill of panic as Sentinel considered Winter might not be able to find him here, but it was still so exposed it really did not matter. And Winter would find him. Sentinel knew it. _I’ll find you._ That’s what Winter had said.

Sentinel fell asleep, curled up in the dark corner, Clint next to him keeping watch. He did not realize how exhausted he was. His muscles ached, he could almost feel the wounds from the knives closing, his shoulder throbbed, hot and swollen, arm hanging limp and heavy at his side. And his head? His head would not stop pounding; it felt like acid was being poured on his brain, trickling down his spine, he could barely see straight as memories kept burning into the space behind his eyelids. He was surprised he could even sleep with all the pain, but he did sleep, falling into exhaustion, fitful and shallow.

And he dreamed.

 

He was walking through a dark hallway; he was too tall, too broad at the shoulder, there were explosions outside. It was snowing. He heard someone murmuring into the dark. _Barnes, James Buchanan, Sargent, 32557038. Barnes, James Buchanan, Sargent, 32557038. Barnes, James Buchanan, Sargent, 32557038._

He stepped into a room and saw Winter lying in the chair, blood dribbling from his mouth, blood was everywhere, knives were sticking up from his skin; _Barnes, James Buchanan, Sargent, 32557038. Barnes, James Buchanan, Sargent, 32557038._

The chair started to lower and Sentinel screamed, but he could not hear his own voice, he tried to run but he was trapped on his knees, he tried to move but his hands were trapped behind his back. He was naked, there was carpet beneath his legs, cold like snow.

Pierce knelt next to him, together they watched as metal arms and machines moved around Winter getting ready to attack him, all the while he kept murmuring _Barnes, James Buchanan, Sargent, 32557038._

Pierce put his hand on Sentinel’s face; caressing, sickly, cold, dead fingers on his skin, running through his hair, ghosting on his lips. His fingers were navy blue and drifted in front of Sentinel’s eyes occasionally, blocking his view. Sentinel was screaming but not screaming. He was trapped and shaking and screaming but not screaming. No sound came out. All he could see was Winter twitching on the chair.

“You really should have caught him,” Pierce whispered in his ear, alcohol-sweet breath on his skin. “This is your fault.”

Pierce was right. He knew that more than he knew how to breathe. Sentinel screamed but did not scream as the chair started humming, loud electric sounds as plates of metal pressed against Winter’s face. Winter started thrashing against the restraints. Pierce’s hands were everywhere, dozens of them, thousands, touching him, pinching him, holding his head, sticking fingers into his mouth, pulling his hair as he was trapped on the floor, forcing him to look as Winter screamed from the torture of the machine, blood dripping everywhere.

Then it stopped. Winter sat up, got off the chair and walked over to Sentinel. Like it was easy. Like the chair had not just killed him. The knives still stuck out from his body. His eyes were dead, there was nothing there like there had been before. He was not Bucky. He was not even Winter.

“Bucky,” Sentinel said, but no sound came out. “Bucky, please!” 

Winter took him by the collar, by the hair, and heaved him to the chair. Sentinel tried to get away, but his limbs were heavy, his arms did not work and he did not want to hurt Winter. His feet slid on the carpet uselessly.

“Bucky, please. You know me!”

“No, I don’t.”

“No!” Sentinel thrashed as Winter started pulling restraints over him. “No, please! Bucky!”

Winter leaned down to Sentinel’s face. He brought his metal hand up and cupped Sentinel’s head, thumb running along his lips. It was cold, and Sentinel could not pull away and he wanted to kiss him but he did not know why.

“No, god no, please…”

Winter leaned down, meeting Sentinel’s eyes. His thumb made it past Sentinel’s lips, into his mouth, before it moved up his face.

“Let it happen,” he said to Sentinel; he ordered. Ice shot through Sentinel’s veins. “Let it happen.”

“No, please!”

But the metal hand was now covering his eyes, and he could not see. All was navy and noise and knives and hands on his skin. He screamed then, and this time could almost hear it from far away and he kicked and jerked against the restraints. The machine started whirring underneath him and the metal hand was so cold on his face and he could not get aw—

 

“No!”

He woke up to a cold breeze on his sweat-damp, tear-wet face and four concerned faces staring down at him, trying to meet his eye, _to order him to kill again_. He squeezed himself back into the corner, gasping, pushing into the stone wall of the memorial, panting for breath. One of the people stepped forward and he flinched, pushing himself further away, trying to melt into the wall itself, ready to lash out, to bite, to claw if he had to.

“Hey, hey it’s alright man,” Clint said. “It’s just me, just us.” Now Sentinel could make out his face in the early evening dark. The others he did not know. A man with darker skin, a woman with red hair, a man with glasses. All of them bruised and injured. “And you know Nat here, Natasha, and you met Sam the other day; he’s a real good guy.”

The red curtain. Nat’s hair. He blinked at her. Sentinel thought he felt safer with her here.

Sam was familiar. He gave Sentinel a small smile, but he looked exhausted. Sentinel thought he had been fighting too long.

These were thoughts from before the chair; they hurt. A fresh wave of nausea rose within him along with the pain and he closed his eyes turning back into the cool stone wall with a groan.

“And this is Anderson,” Clint said. “He can help.”

The man with the glasses stepped forward with his hands raised, rolling his sleeves up. “I’m a medical doctor. I just want to take a quick look at your vitals. Is it okay if I do that?” Sentinel turned and stared at him for a moment, assessing and then nodded. He was going to be staying here until Winter came anyway, so it did not really matter. Dr. Anderson pulled out a flashlight. “I’m going to touch your face, is that alright?” Sentinel nodded once more. He very gently held open one of Sentinel’s eyelids, then the other. “Pupils slow to react, but equal size. He’s got a high fever though.” The doctor started to undo the zipper on the sweatshirt Clint had given Sentinel and paused, flinching back.

“What is that?” asked Sam. Sentinel thought he should not have to see this; he had done enough. He looked horrified.

“Shock collar,” said the woman with the red hair. “Isn’t that right?”

Sentinel nodded at her.

The doctor took his wrist instead; “Pulse is very rapid.”

“He was saying his head hurt. And his shoulder is real fucked up; it’s been that way since they took him.”

“He’s not healing?”

“It’s dislocated. His other stuff is healing, though.”

“What other stuff?”

“They kind of cut him up a little.”

“Jesus.”

The others spoke above him very quietly. Sentinel half-listened. He stared out past their legs waiting for Winter. Winter would come. He was going to meet him here. _I’ll find you._

“He’s real messed up, Nat. I was talking to him and they did something and he’s not—“ Clint cut himself off with a sigh. “He’s not him anymore, Nat. He said they ‘emptied him.’ He didn’t remember me, didn’t remember any of you. And he was saying stuff about the guy with the arm we ran into.”

“What was he saying?” Sam asked.

“He said it was Bucky Barnes. But that’s not possible.”

“Neither is he,” replied Sam. “Listen, none of this is possible from where I’m standing and yet here we are. And I don’t think he’s in a state to make stuff up.”

“But he is in a state to be manipulated. And that’s the one who ordered him to get here?” Nat asked.

“Yeah, called him ‘Winter,’ but said it was Bucky too. I don’t know, man.”

“Well it doesn’t matter, we need to get him to a hospital,” Dr. Anderson said. “His arm alone is—“

“Good luck with that,” said Clint. “I don’t think he’ll let us.”

“We need to get the collar off, get him x-rayed, even an MRI, maybe.”

“If I could’ve gotten him to the hospital, doc, I would’ve.”

Sentinel felt their eyes on him, but stared ahead resolutely; waiting.

“What did you talk to him about, Clint?” Nat asked.

“Just talking, he’s been like this since I found him. He’s not him, that’s what I’ve been trying to say.”

The woman — Nat, Natasha, _“Are you sure about this?” “Yeah, it’ll be fun,”_ but her hair was longer now — knelt down in front of him. She did not try to meet his eye, and he was so grateful for that. She looked at his hands instead, or glanced at the wall over his shoulder.

“Can I ask you about Winter?” Sentinel nodded. “Do you know what he is?”

“He’s like me. He’s an asset.”

“He’s not like you, though.”

“He’s been an asset for longer.”

“You’re not an asset, you know that right? Do you know what Winter does?”

Something let go inside of Sentinel’s chest — _not an asset,_ — and it felt like he could breathe just a little bit easier. “I don’t want to be an asset.”

“Do you know what Winter does?” She repeated.

“ _Winter will train you up good. He’s a pro. He kills people all the time. I’ve seen him kill men with his bare hands.”_ Rumlow’s voice said.

“He kills people,” Sentinel whispered. He thought of Rumlow, of the man he made Sentinel kill. Bile and panic rose in his throat together. His words came faster from his lips, his breaths shallow. “They tell him to kill people and he does and he can’t not, and the imprint makes it happen, it’s not him, it’s not him! and he—“

Nat made a shushing noise, and lay a small hand on Sentinel’s wrist. He tried not to flinch away; because of the collar, because he felt safe with her and wanted to be sure. “It’s okay. I know. They make us do terrible things.” Sentinel closed his eyes. “Did they make you do anything?” she asked.

“They— Rumlow—“

“Did they make you kill anyone?”

All Sentinel could see the man with the gag and the blindfold lying in his blood with his eyes closed, and the image would not leave when he opened them, staring at the woman with the red hair. Not blood red, but red all the same.

“One person,” he finally whispered. “I’m sorry. I tried not to. Please, I didn’t want— Rumlow ordered— the imprint— please, I’m sorry, I didn’t want to— please, don’t make me, please, don’t make me—“

“ _Shhh_ … it’s okay. They make us do terrible things.”

He finally met her eyes. She understood something he did not. He felt safer with her. He turned away, he still could hold her gaze.

“I’m not sure we can trust Winter,” she continued. Sentinel shook his head, but she kept talking. “He’s dangerous.”

“No, I have to see him. I know him. Please, I know him.”

“It might not be in your best interest.”

“We’re running. We’re getting out. He said we would run. He said he would not let them freeze me.”

“He tried to hurt us. All three of us.”

“They made him, they told him to,” Sentinel said. He was not sure if he was trying to convince her or himself. “He has the imprint too. Pierce— Rumlow— they’re the ones—“

“They’re dead. They’re both dead. Pierce and Rumlow.”

“Then Winter won’t hurt you anymore.”

“Are you sure?”

Sentinel was not sure. Something deep within him knew he was right, but he did not know where it came from, he could not make it make sense. It did not matter though. He had no time to think about it.

If he thought the pain of hearing Bucky’s name was terrible, it was nothing compared to hearing Nat say; “Are you sure, Rogers?” She paused as his eyes widened, as white light supernovaed in his nerves.

_“Steve?”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Anderson is the name of my dog's vet... /shjrugs.
> 
> So I have about 7-ish more chapters of this written and every time I post a new chapter I'm like "Crap, I gotta keep ahead of this!" It's very daunting. This was supposed to be like 10K words, tops. Whoops.
> 
> I'm Betsy, I eat cheddar cheese and scream into the void on [tumblr](http://batraquomancy.tumblr.com).


	15. Chapter 15

It was as if he was watching the proceedings from outside his body. An observer, standing a few feet away, invisible to his real self and the others, detached and above it all; like a cloud. The doctor, Nat, Sam and Clint were frantic around him; there was nothing but movement, as they tried to hold him still, keep him steady. as he seized and violently shook on against the wall. Though, from where he watched he was calm, detatched. There was no pain from where he watched.

He screamed. The sound echoed into the silent evening around them, eerie and pained and terrible at the still and quiet memorial. The water was unperturbed, the statues solemn still. He watched as he crashed back against the wall; head and metal shock collar connecting with the stone loudly. He was spasming, slipping down to the floor. His body was not his anymore; his arms and legs would not move.

_Steve. Steve Rogers._

That was his name, he had heard it thousands upon thousands of times. He was hearing all thousands again now. He was in Brooklyn, on the sidewalk, in the park, in the bodega on the corner, in the hospital where his mother worked, in school, in church, at the theater, on the train, in Jersey, in Camp Leigh, at a secret SSR office under an antique shop, on stage, on stairs, on a boat, on a train, in Britain, in France, Italy, Switzerland, 

Sam and Clint tried to hold him still, but he was too strong — Steve Rogers was a super soldier, of course he was too strong, how had he not realized? He could probably have walked out of Hydra naked and made it out fine. He could have broken the locks, he knew that now. He could have killed Rumlow, he knew that now.

Dr. Anderson and Natasha were digging through a bag, talking quickly about sedatives and painkillers.

He was shaking, spasming on the floor, screaming and whimpering all the while. Begging, pleading, but he could not make out the words. His fists were clenching at his temples as he curled in on himself, rolling to his side futility trying to scream away the pain.

“Make it stop, please, make it stop!”

“It’s okay, man, it’s alright. It’ll be alright.”

“I don’t want it! Please, I don’t want it!”

And he did not want it. His name was like fire in his spine, in his nerves, at the base of his skull. ‘Sentinel’ did not hurt. ‘Steve Rogers’ burned; acid fierce and lightning flash under his eyes, under his skin, in his very bones. It was worse than gunshots; Steve Rogers had been shot a few times. It was worse than stab wounds; Steve and Sentinel had their fair share of those.

It was worse than the chair.

He could feel Sam’s hands holding his head, Clint’s hands on his arms, holding him steady. They were trying so hard to make this easier and it was not helping. They looked so scared as he spasmed and jerked on the ground.

He missed Bucky. Some distant, _very distant_ , part of him was reminded of lying in bed with Bucky keeping an eye on him, praying the rosary, talking to Steve about everything and anything, reading from whatever book Steve had been in the middle of. Bucky always did these things when Steve was dying, but where was Bucky now? Sentinel had made it to Lincoln Memorial and Bucky should be here, reading to him, Ave Maria’ing next to him as he died here on the stone floor.

 _“It’s TB, I know it is, you gotta go.”_ He shivered, he could not see straight. It really was not so different in ’38 than it was now. _Food’s a lot better, we used to boil everything…_

 _“It ain’t TB, you’ll be alright.”_ Bucky did not look entirely convinced, but still he held Sentinel’s hand. All Sentinel wanted was to be holding Bucky’s hand again. He opened and closed his fist and finally Sam took his hand, and it was almost okay, but it wasn’t Bucky, it wasn’t Winter.

_“Please, Buck you can’t die too.”_

“Please, Buck…”

_“No one’s dying today.”_

Sentinel knew that might not be true this time around. He watched as he spasmed on the ground. It was easier for Bucky to hold him still when he was smaller, and god when had he gotten so big? Nothing made sense anymore, and the salt-wound burn in his brain made the world seem even less solid. Someone might be dying today.

He missed Bucky.

“He’s remembering,” Natasha said. “His brain is trying to heal.”

“This really doesn’t sound like healing, Natasha.”

“It’s TB, you gotta go…”he said into the evening, voice raspy and torn from screaming. The last thing he wanted was for his friends to get tuberculosis. He almost sobbed at the idea of Sam and Nat and Clint coughing blood, looking pale on the cold hospital bed the way his mother had. 

“It’s his serum, it’s not supposed to happen this fast.”

“It’s killing him,” said Sam.

“Maybe,” she replied. They exchanged a grim look. Sentinel watched on from his spot far away. Steve watched from his spot far away. A wave of guilt passed through him. He hoped this would not kill him because they deserved better. They looked so scared. He knew Sam had been through so much; they all had. He was supposed to be useful. He was their friend, and they deserved better. He stopped screaming after a while, but it still burned. He could not stop the white-hot flashing behind his eyes as wave after wave of memory hit him. His body was shaking and would not stop. Sam was right, it was going to kill him. He whimpered on the ground under their hands, rocking back and forth, and whimpered as he watched from his spot far away.

“Please, please.” The words just barely made it out of his lips. He was shivering, he was burning, he was dying. “Please, make it stop.”

Dr. Anderson pulled something from his bag and pressed a syringe near the shock collar and into Sentinel’s neck, into Steve’s neck.

He watched as his body slowly stopped shaking and the world went dark around the edges. This kept happening to him. They knew he was remembering things, and now they would have to wipe him.

They would have to put him in the chair.

A wave of dread filled him that he could not fight as his limbs grew heavy. He groaned or sobbed, a sound choked and feral and scared fell from his throat. He looked up from the floor and met Natasha’s eyes, risking the chance she would order him to kill; he would not be able to fight it now if she did. He was almost waiting for the order even as he lay there begging, even as his body slowly succumbed to whatever Dr. Anderson had given him. 

“I’m sorry. Don’t put us in the chair,” he tried to get out. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

“Don’t be sorry, it’s okay. You’ll be okay.”

“Not the chair,” he murmured. “Winter. Please. Not the chair.”

He did not hear what she said in response. His vision was dark, he did not see anything else.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huh... I remember this chapter being like 500 words longer than it actually is. Ah well. Sorry it's so short! And man, if you think things are angsty now, wait until chapter 21. I just finished it (need to edit), and it is going to completely mess you up. I'm so excited, it is devastating! I'm so proud. >:D
> 
> I'm Betsy, [I tumbl](http://batraquomancy.tumblr.com) and man, oh man, do I have a problem with torturing Steve Rogers. (and oh my gosh, there's an anon message sitting in my tumblr inbox asking me about scenes I'd want made into fanart (in a general way, they said they can't draw but would do my stuff if they could), and I'm dying. That's a level of fan-ness I don't think I can even begin to comprehend, and I'm spasming. If you was you, you made my day).


	16. Chapter 16

It felt like he was sinking only there was something soft against his skin. There was a faint beeping from nearby and he blinked eyes slowly opening, looking up at a tiled ceiling and a warm fluorescent light flickering overhead. He ran his fingers over the sheet beneath him, thinking perhaps it might have been cement and he was just confused. The mattress was soft, squishing down under his fingers. Not cement. Not the stone of Lincoln Memorial either, and a small pang of grief ran through him; he was not supposed to be here.

He swallowed, tongue feeling thick and heavy in his mouth, his head was aching, but did not hurt nearly as badly as it had before. He was grateful for that. He checked under his fingertips once more; not cement. This was better, but unfamiliar and not better at the same time. At least he was not cold; he did not like the cold. But he knew he could not tell anyone that because they would wipe him.

He turned and saw Sam and Natasha sitting next to him. Sam was sleeping; he looked so tired even as he slept, and that was just heartbreaking.

“Hey,” Nat said softly. He nodded at her, pushing himself up a little. In the light he could see a bruise forming on the side her her face. He stared at it for a moment, blinking and trying to clear his head. His arm was in a sling, strapped tightly to his chest, but shifting around he knew his shoulder was not healed yet. Hadn’t Pierce said something about surgery? Had they cut him open yet? Would they strap him down to do so? Stick knives in him while he was still awake? Hands over his head, held down on a metal table by the collar, blindfolded— he shuddered, forcing himself not to think about that.

“H-how long?” he asked. His throat was dry and raspy from disuse, from screaming. Natasha handed him a cup of water.

“You’ve been out for about twelve hours, here at the hospital for about eleven. The doctors wanted to keep you under for longer, let you heal, but we kind of need to talk. I need to tell Nick what’s up.” He nodded at her once more. ‘Nick’ sounded familiar. “How’s your head?”

He shrugged. The words, “ _Kinda shitty, thanks for asking,_ ” hovered on his lips, but he did not say them. They did not feel like his words. “It’s been better,” he said softly.

It had been better after he was wiped. The only pain he could remember from then was in his shoulder. Had it been better before the chair?

“It gets easier. Do you remember I went through something similar?” He shrugged again, giving her a small nod. That sounded right; he did not remember per se, but that sounded right. “The wiping technology has gotten better. Test subjects used to die because their brain would be wiped to stop sending out signals, including the ones that make you breathe, make your heart beat. Took them forever to figure that crap out.”

She chuckled softly, as if it was funny; maybe it was. It did not seem very funny to him. He thought maybe she did not actually think it was all that funny either.

“Did—“ the word felt too loud in the quiet hospital room. “Winter— did he—“

She shook her head. “He didn’t show. Clint stayed behind in case he did, but didn’t see him. It’s possible he was there, saw you weren’t and booked. But we don’t know. He can go without being seen. Clint’s good but your guy’s better, I’ve seen him in action before this, before the helicarriers.”

He frowned at her.

“We all thought he was a ghost story; the Winter Soldier. The assassin with the metal arm? I met him once; never thought I’d see him again. I was escorting a nuclear engineer out of Iran. Crashed near Odessa, got my guy out, but your boyfriend was there. I was covering the engineer, so he shot him. Right through me.” She lifted her shirt. There was a bandage on her abdomen on one side, but she was pointing to a scar on the other side, a small, pink oval on her otherwise unblemished skin. “It’s a shame; crop-tops are coming back into fashion but I guess I’m outta luck.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you’d look terrible in them now,” he said easily, words coming out on their own without his leave. They were not his words. Or they were Steve’s words; foreign and right in his mouth at the same time. She gave him a small smile.

“I saw him on the helicarrier,” she continued softly. He stiffened, staring at her. The bruise on her face? the damage to her side? Had Winter done that? She frowned looking down at her feet propped against the bed. “He’s not Bucky Barnes.”

Something within him wanted to spit back, _“And I’m not Steve Rogers,”_ but he held back. He clenched his jaw and stared at the blanket on his lap.

“Did he say anything?”

“No. We fought. He could have killed me.”

“It’d take an army to kill you.” It was another one of those strings of words that he knew was right, was not his, but fell from his lips without his leave. Truth without a source. Muscle memory, without the memory.

“Flattery will only get you so far, Steve.” His mind twinged at the sound of his name on her lips.

“I need to get back to Lincoln Memorial. I need to find him.”

“Steve—“ She looked away, red curtain, red hair, looking dull under the fluorescent lights. She looked tired too. Both her and Sam looked like they had fought a battle alone. Maybe they had; he had seen the Triskilion from the memorial. A strange, twisted line of reasoning rose in his mind; they were not his handlers, what did it matter? He thought how they fared should matter though. He _knew_ they mattered. He felt both that they were so terribly important to him, and so entirely irrelevant; they were heavy anchors and weightless wraiths in his mind. He could not stand the way his mind warred against itself. He needed them; he needed Sam’s chest to rise and fall as he breathed evenly in the chair, he needed Natasha to wet her lips and pull her hair back into a pony tail behind her — the bruise on her face standing out even more starkly now. Chemicals told him he needed Pierce, needed Rumlow more and he hated that; the idea of them was bitter in his mouth.

He needed Winter.

“I need to find him,” he said again softly.

“They imprinted you on him. Do you know what that means?”

“It’s not that—“

“It _is_ that.” Her face was stern. “I can’t in good conscience let him get near you again.” His stomach twisted, and a fresh pang of panic rose in him. He stared at her and she stared back resolutely. It almost hurt to meet her eyes, he felt exposed. “He hurt you, don’t you get that?” she asked.

“They hurt him! They were making me like him, he’s just as innocent as—”

“He’s killed people.”

“I’ve killed people!”

“He ordered you under an imprint. Did you kill anyone for him too? Would it be easier than if Rumlow ordered you? What else did he make you do?”

That hurt like a slap to the face; he thought of his night with Pierce. _Let it happen._ What would happen if Winter told him to kill?

“N-no,” he said, closing his eyes. “It wasn’t like that—“

“So, what did he make you do?”

His heart was thudding in his throat; “Natasha, stop it. Please, for god’s sake just—“

“Tell me, Steve. Did you want to sit bleeding out at fucking Lincoln Memorial waiting for a guy who looks like your dead boyfriend? I bet not. He made you do that. It could have killed you and you—“

“Natasha, that’s enough.” Sam was awake suddenly and Steve flinched at his tone. Sam let out a breath, wiping away the sleep on his face. “I think you should go wait outside for a little bit, tell the doctors Steve’ll need a checkup if you see them.”

She glared at both of them for a moment before finally standing up and leaving the room silently. He watched her go, red hair catching the light.“She means well,” Sam said at last. “It was hard for her to see you like that before. It was pretty bad. She’s shook up, I think.” Their eyes met and Sentinel flinched away after a moment, feeling exposed once more. There was no imprint here, he knew that, same as there was no imprint with Natasha. The fear was deep within him though; he wondered if he would ever be able to look people in the eye again. And he realized he did not know Sam that well; they ran together, he visited the VA office where he worked. He should not even be here, he looked so tired. Steve felt guilty and just as tired looking at him. He felt guilty for the string of fear he felt when their eyes met. Sam did not deserve that.

“Can’t say she’s wrong,” Sam continued. “Can’t say she’s right either.”

Sentinel sighed, leaning back into the bed. He stared down at his hand in his lap. It was the one Winter had held when they did the imprint. Why had he let go? He should have never let go. “I need to find him,” he said. “It’s not like she says, Sam. It’s Winter. It’s Bucky.”

“She says that imprints can fade; few weeks, a few months. Especially if you’re not exposed to the person you’ve imprinted on. It might be faster for you with your super healing.”

“A few months? Sam, I can’t wait a few months.”

“It might be faster.”

“Sam,” he implored.

“Steve.”

He flinched at the name. He was tired.

“Steve. You’re a mess. You can’t just go running after him, not now. You at least need surgery for your shoulder and you’ve gone through major brain trauma.”

“I haven’t gone through major brain—“

“The chair did something to you that is literally called a ‘mind-wipe.’ How else would you describe it other than ‘brain trauma’?”

“I’ll heal,” he replied stubbornly.

“And when you do, then we go out and look for your guy. I’ll be there with you and won’t stop until we find him. I promise you that. Okay? And if you run, you run; we’ll follow. Natasha says the imprint’ll probably make you run for him, and we’ll deal with that as it happens. We just don’t want to see you get hurt. Do you understand?” He sighed wiping his face once more. “He might even come looking for you. But just don’t run, not yet anyway. Let the doctors fix your shoulder, get a few decent night’s sleeps, let us try and get the collar off your neck. Can you do that? For us?” He nodded at Sam. He could do that. “Your guy will understand. If he’s good for you he’ll want you to get better. Right?”

He nodded to Sam once more, turning away. He reached up and touched the collar, holding back a shudder at the cold metal. He had actually forgotten it was there; it was part of him now. Would Winter recognize him without it? He closed his eyes and sank a little deeper into the mattress.

“You going back to sleep?” Sam asked. He nodded. It was easier than continuing in this conversation. “Do you need me to stay until you’re down?” He shook his head. “Do you mind if I go use the restroom?” He shook his head again. “Alright, I’m gonna go pee, someone will be here or just outside when you wake up, okay?”

“Okay.”

“You’re not gonna try to run?”

He shook his head. “No.” He was not. Sam was right; Steve knew that. 

Sam left, turning off the light as he stepped from the room. At first Steve really did try and fall back asleep. He closed his eyes and lay back down, but could not get comfortable. His head was still hurting, and his shoulder ached, even with the sling holding it steady. He finally sat up, looking around the dark room.

He missed Winter. It was not just the pull of the imprint — as he thought about it now, he could almost feel it in his brain, foreign but welcome where Rumlow and Pierce’s imprint was not — but something more. His heart ached, worry gnawed at him. He could not get comfortable, he just wanted to see Bucky’s, Winter’s, Bucky’s eyes. He wanted it to make sense, he wanted to not be afraid. He wanted to hear Winter’s voice, sounding the way it did when it felt comfortable and familiar in his mind.

He looked down at his hand in his lap, opening and closing his fist, imagining he was holding Winter’s hand; skin warm and dry against his.

Sentinel swung his legs off the bed and stood up, Steve took the blanket off of the bed. He settled down on the floor, in the corner of the room. The floor was hard and solid underneath him, and the walls in the corner were cool and smooth against his skin. It was not like the cement; it did not feel the same — it was not _right_ — but it was better then the bed. He lay the blanket over his legs, and curled up against the wall, holding his bad arm close to his body. 

He missed Winter.

His eyes slipped closed and he fell into a fitful, but thankfully dreamless asleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's going to be a chunk of 'hospital'/pseudo-recovery/angst-tastic chapters for a while, but don't worry, there be Hydra shenanigans on the horizon!
> 
> (And just an update; I added a note on this story in the beginning notes on the first chapter, but I figured I'd reiterate it here. There are several points in this story both in the previous chapters and in things coming up that could have taken a very HTP turn, which I opted not to do because I got more invested in the plot/angst. That being said, if anyone was interested in writing something HTP using this premise, I would not mind. I understand it could easily lend itself to that sort of situation (in fact that's the direction I thought it was going when I first started). So if that's your thing, let me know if you do! ~~I love a good terribleday!Steve HTP fic!~~ )
> 
> I'm Betsy, and I can't find my phone and I spend more time on my [tumblr](http://batraquomancy.tumblr.com) than is strictly healthy. *blows kisses*


	17. Chapter 17

He woke up to the sound of a loud click.

Steve opened his eyes and looked up to see Natasha, pointing a gun in his direction. He tensed. This was it. They were going to take him to the chair. They were going to wipe him, he was unstable, he was remembering, he couldn’t close his eyes without seeing navy, without feeling like drowning. They would never keep him.

Would he even remember Winter?

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

She frowned, brow furrowing and he blinked at her before realizing she was not pointing it at him but rather pointing it at the floor in front of him.

He looked down to the sight of Winter lying there in front of him, curled around his leg the same way he had slept curled around Winter’s leg so many times these past few days. He thought he should have been surprised but he wasn’t. He had no idea when Winter had shown up, but he was there now. Steve could not help himself as his hand came down and ran gently through his hair; he was grimy and covered in ash and dirt and blood, but Steve did not care; Bucky was here, Winter was here.

He trembled beneath Steve and woke, looking up to meet his eyes. Steve smiled. He felt a small _“Oh”_ in his soul, _“it’s you.”_ Everything would be alright. Even if they put him back in the chair.

“You weren’t at Lincoln Memorial,” Winter whispered.

“I’m sorry. I was there. But I couldn’t— they brought me here—“

“I’m glad. I should’ve been clearer. I’m glad you’re here now."

There was dried blood caked on his face, coming from a large gash on his head. The dark red-brown on his skin making his blue eyes look even brighter; stark and scared and there, _he was there_. Looking into his eyes Steve felt like he was drowning and being pulled from the water all at once.

“Stop looking at him.”

He very suddenly remembered Natasha was there. Winter tensed beneath him and slowly rose from the floor. Their eye contact broke and Sentinel almost whimpered. He moved in front of Steve’s body, turning towards Natasha, holding a hand out. Now that he was sitting up Steve saw red blood had puddled beneath him, staining his black clothes even darker. He coughed and Steve was certain blood might be trickling down from his lips.

Bucky was dying and he was sitting between Steve and a loaded gun.

Winter started speaking in Russian, fast and pained, clutching his side. Natasha responded back, her Russian just as fast, spitting venom at Winter while Steve could only sit back and watch. She looked confused, frowning as Bucky spoke. Clint came in, gun drawn and Bucky pressed back into Steve shielding him as if he was not the one they were aiming at. Steve could smell the musk from his skin, the blood dripping from his body.

Amidst the Russian there was one word that Steve recognized; ‘ _Sentinel._ ’

“Sentinel?” Natasha asked, pausing. Winter fell quiet, eyes darting back and forth between Clint and Natasha’s guns. They all stared at each other for a moment, heavy silence weighing on them. Realization clicked on her face. “You don’t even know his name. You don’t even know who he is.”

“I know him,” Winter responded, Bucky responded. His voice was soft, rasping. “Please, I’m asking—”

“You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“We would be yours! We will be S.H.I.E.L.D.’s. Do not separate us and we will do whatever you say. There is no greater gift—“

“That isn’t a gift—“

“Countries have paid _millions_ for me alone to complete a single job and now you have two of us, forever! What else would you call it?”

“S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn’t work that way. We don’t barter in people! We don’t have ‘Assets’ or—“

“You all work that way,” Bucky spat. “You all would give me a gun and let me clean your messes—”

“Shut up!” Natasha yelled.

“Take us!”

“Shut up!”

“That’s enough!” Sam stood in the doorway. “Everyone needs to calm down.” Winter took the opportunity to press even deeper into Steve’s body, and Steve placed a hand on his shoulder, hoping to calm him down, trying to make sure he was really there. “Put the guns down.”

“Not fucking happening, Wilson,” Clint replied.

“He’s unarmed, he’s injured.”

“Like hell he’s unarmed. I bet he can do more damage like he is now than an entire special ops team at a hundred percent.”

“He pulled me outta the damn air and nearly killed me on that helicarrier, I know what he can do. But you’re the ones pointing guns at two injured men, crouched in the corner, literally selling themselves not to be separated. We need to stop.”

“It’s not like that—“

“That’s how I’m seeing it. Everyone needs to stop for a moment and breathe.”

They fell quiet and finally Clint and Natasha uncocked their guns, holstering them at their hips. Winter let in one breath, and then two before collapsing against Steve; the invisible strings holding him tight and terrified were cut all at once. Steve pulled him into his chest and they sat there clinging to each other in the dark hospital room, while Sam, Nat and Clint stared. He could feel the tacky blood that had soaked through his thick uniform, and his face against his cheek was cold and clammy. He tried to pull Bucky, pull Winter in even closer, desperate now to never let him go.

“Is he hurt?” Clint asked softly, stepping forward.

“Yes,” Steve said.

“I’m functional,” Winter said. “We’re both functional. We both work.” Sam took another step forward, and Bucky pressed even impossibly further into Steve. “Operational, we’re operational; we will do well, I promise, please, I promise.”

He started speaking in Russian again, but his words were slurring back between English and Russian, then Spanish and other languages Steve could not recognize. Bucky was slipping on the floor, blood beneath him making him loose his grip; Steve could feel it warm and wet against his body.

“You’re hurt. Let them help you, it’ll be alright.” Bucky tensed beneath him, shaking his head, muttering in language after language. “Please Winter… Bucky.”

Bucky tensed in his arms, turning to face Steve. Their eyes met once more, and it felt like Steve’s heart was finally allowed to beat again. He very carefully ran a finger down Bucky’s face; he was not sure he was even real. Bucky blinked up at him, and the tension left his face, he was almost smiling.

Then his eyes slipped closed, he grew limp in Steve’s arms.

“Winter?” he did not respond. Steve was certain his heart had stopped beating. “Winter!” Steve lost his grip and Bucky slipped to the floor. “No, no, no, no!”

“Sam, get a doctor!”

Clint knelt down and pulled Bucky onto his back. He wasn’t moving, he was barely breathing. Steve was watching him die, again. This was worse than the fall off the train, and now that was burning behind his eyes as well, painful and raw. He was holding onto the other man so tight now and he still could not catch him in time. He could not see anything; only Bucky, only Winter not responding, not moving on the floor. There was movement, and the others were talking around him, but nothing mattered. He could not tear his eyes away from Winter’s. Winter would not open his eyes.

“Please, I don’t understand, I don’t understand, please, please, please, no,” a voice somewhere else was saying. Sentinel pressed closer to Winter on the floor, his lips touching the clammy, blood-stained skin on Winter’s face. All he knew was that Winter’s eyes should be open, his skin clean, _his hair shorter_ , his breath steady. This felt worse than the shock collar, worse than the chair. 

He felt hands at his shoulders, “Steve, get back, let the doctors get in, man.”

“Please, please—“

He let Sam pull him back and watched as the doctors and nurses and EMT’s clustered around Winter’s body, cutting off his clothes and assessing the damage. There was blood everywhere. He could not even see the damage, and it felt like his vision was blurring, tunneling; all he saw was Winter’s face, pale, sallow, almost blue, the dark circles under his eyes, the skin of his lips almost white.

There was a gurney, there were hands all over Bucky, they lifted him, put him on and started to take him away.

“What? No! Wait!” Steve was scrambling to his feet, and Clint and Sam stood in front of him.

“He needs surgery, Steve. They’re going to take care of him.”

“No, I have to—“

He did not even know what he had to do. All he knew was that he had just gotten Winter back only to have be taken away again. _Surgery._ Were they going to cut off his other arm? Were they going to cover his eyes? Use knives? Carve in to his flesh and make him eat it? Were they going to use the chair? _Not the chair, please it hurts so much_. He felt his breath coming heavy in his chest but the oxygen was not reaching him.

“Please, I have to—“

“You have to stay here, Steve.”

Then Winter was gone. Natasha followed after the doctors, and closed the behind them. Then the lock clicked.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone was so excited to have Bucky back. I bet you're not thinking that now, huh? Why did everyone think it'd be good? Don't you know me by now?
> 
> I'm Betsy. I'm sick, but I wanted to get a chapter up and I keep kvetching about being sick on my [tumblr](http://batraquomancy.tumblr.com). Remember me fondly in case this sore throat makes me kick the bucket.


	18. Chapter 18

Steve pushed forward past Sam and Clint and rushed to the door, slamming his hands on the frame. He jiggled the handle violently, feeling it start to give under his hand. He could have walked out of the Hydra compound with Bucky in tow and he hadn’t. Part of him was screaming that he would not make the same mistake again, he could not. All he could see was the dried blood on Bucky’s face and fresh blood on the ground, spilling over Bucky’s hands, oozing wrongly from his body. _You just got him back,_ a stronger voice said to him; Steve’s real voice said to Sentinel. _Don’t lose him again; I’ll never forgive you._ He was about to pull off the handle and run after the doctors when Sam lay his hand over Steve’s.

“No.” It fell from his mouth in a whimper. “I have to—“

“Steve, look at me a minute?” Sentinel turned a little, staring at Sam’s shoulder. “I promise you, I’ll do everything in my power to make sure you see him again, okay? Do you believe me?”

He wanted to nod, he wanted to shake his head; instead he stared back at the door. _Do not make the same mistake again._

“I know you want to go after him,” Sam said. His voice was quiet, patient. Steve wondered if Sam was used to this; crazy super soldiers ready to destroy the world for their one armed compatriots. He was taking this all in stride in a way that left the small corner of Steve’s brain not focused on Bucky reeling a little. “But if you go charging through the hospital, the doctors can’t fix him. He could die. We gotta let them do their work. You know this, okay? You know this. Natasha is going to watch out for him. Nothing will happen to him under her watch.”

“Natasha hates him. You saw it.” His hand grew tighter on the door handle, he could feel the metal bending under his palm. Why hadn’t he just walked out of the Hydra base? Taken Bucky and just left? It would have been so simple. He could have killed them all. He almost hated Natasha too, but that was not quite right. It was not hate, he just wished she would understand. She was with Bucky and he wasn’t and she did not understand.

“She doesn’t hate him. She’s trying to take care of you too, that’s all.”

“You’re in a bad place, Cap.” Clint murmured on his other side. “You won’t be any good to him if you run yourself ragged freaking out like this.”

Something was breaking in his mind. He could only stare at the door. He was frozen and wanted to move; he was moving, trembling, falling, breaking apart into a thousand jagged pieces and wanted to stop. He could walk, he could break the door down, he could do what they wanted him to do.

He would do what they wanted him to do.

“Functional,” he whispered.

“What?”

“I’m functional. Please, I’m functional,” he whispered, repeating Winter. He did not know what else to do, what else to say. It felt as though he was still drowning in the navy blindfold, like he was being dragged to the chair and strapped down to watch his heart be torn out, to be emptied. He would go back in the chair if it meant he could see Winter again at this point. He would die to see Winter again. He was terrified, he was ready. “Please. We’ll do what you say. I’ll do what you say.”

“Steve?”

“Don’t separate us. We’re yours. He said it, Winter said it, we’re yours, please—“ _pleasepleaseplease…_

“Christ, he’s falling back on the programming, Sam.”

“Steve, Steve, look at me.” Sentinel flinched when he felt a light hand on his face. He curled away, closing his eyes, preparing for Rumlow to shock him with the collar, pressing his forehead into the door. “This isn’t you, Steve. You’re mixing stuff up. You’re not an asset, this isn’t Hydra. You’re alright. You’ll see him again, I promise.”

 _I don’t want to be an asset._ Steve let out a shaky breath, sliding down to his knees at the door. He was trembling once more, and half of him hated it; wanted to die because of it. Steve was screaming in his mind to fight this, to fight everything, but he was so tired. _I’ll never forgive you._ His hand was still on the handle. He could break the door down. He was terrified. He felt eyes on him from above, and behind and all around him. Steve knew they were going to put him in the chair as surely as he knew they would not ever do such a thing to him. Clint or Sam ran a hand comfortingly on his back.

Sam knelt down next to him. “Talk to me, Steve. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“I don’t know,” he whispered back. He finally opened his eyes as Sam sat down with his back against the door. Steve finally let go of the door handle. Nothing made sense. “I don’t understand.” _Please, I don’t understand._

“There’s no right answer. Sometimes words are better out than in, okay?”

Steve shook his head, Sam did not understand either. “I have to see him.”

“You will. I promise.”

“But Natasha…”

“Natasha doesn’t scare me.”

“She should,” Clint and Steve said at the same time. Sam smiled. Steve winced as a quick flash of memory shot through him. Natasha was smiling, Natasha was terrifying, Natasha would protect him. He did not know why though, he was not sure he deserved it.

“What else is on your mind, Steve?”

“I just got him back,” he said softly. _How could you lose him again?_ “I just got him back and I can’t— and you’re going to—“ he cut himself off quickly. _You’re going to put us in the chair. Please, I’m functional, we’re functional, we’re functional. It hurts so much._

“What am I going to do?”

“You’re not. I know you’re not.”

“Tell me anyway. I’ll make sure to not do it.”

“The chair. I know you’re not going to put me, not put Winter, in the chair, but I know it’s going to happen. You have to do it. I remember, and it’s almost been seven days.”

“What happens after seven days?”

“They said they would put me back in the chair. They wanted to see what I would do without the base programming.”

“Well, we’re not going to do that. We’re not Hydra.”

“I know.” He forced himself to take a shaky breath. “I know you wouldn’t do it. But I know it’s going to happen too. It was supposed to happen after seven days. It hurts, it hurts so much. I’m not supposed to remember things, and I’m remembering—” he stopped himself once more.

“We’re not going to put you in the chair. You’ll never go back into the chair, okay?”

Steve stared at him for a moment before turning away, looking at the door. He closed his eyes for a moment but it felt too navy. He could hear Pierce in his ear feel hands and knives on his skin, hear Winter whispering _“I’m sorry,”_ and _“let it happen.”_ He opened his eyes with a jerk, flinching back away from Sam for a moment, heart thudding in his chest.

“Fuck,” the word fell from his lips on its own. Right, but not right.

“Yeah, no kidding.”

He tried to smile at Sam. That seemed like the right thing to do, but he was not sure his face would let him. He could not even meet Sam’s eye. Sam shouldn’t even be here. He should be working down at the VA, living his life.

“Are you okay?” Sam finally asked.

He met Sam’s eye then. Then he started laughing. It was raw and rasping in his throat, slightly hysterical, a bubble of release filled him as he stared at Sam who smiled back at him. “No, I’m not.”

“Figured as much. But it’s good that you’re aware of it. It’s a start.” He sighed, moving to stand up and pulled Steve up with him. “You up for a shower? Start feeling a little human again?”

 _You’re not human_ ,whispered Pierce. _You have left humanity behind,_ said the man with the red skull. He thought of dried blood on his skin and the hoses the technicians used and every time he closed his eyes it was like the blindfold was coming back, and there were hands holding him down, sliding over his skin, and knives piercing his body, and he couldn’t get to Bucky and Bucky was bleeding onto the floor and telling him to just let it happen.

“That sound okay, Steve?”

Steve nodded. There were worse things.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter and the next two are unfortunately pretty short (about 1400 words a pop. This chapter was originally mushed with the last one but then it was too long and now it is too short! My life is a mess!) All I can say is désolé mes cheres. But then chapter 21 is gonna be 3K+ of pure, beefy, terrible, horrible, no good, oh my god, Betsy is an emotional sadist **ANGST** so hopefully that'll make up for it. I'm very excited. :D
> 
> I'm Betsy, and I spend too much time on [tumblr](http://batraquomancy.tumblr.com).


	19. Chapter 19

It had been a struggle to get the sling and clothes off of him, and before Sam helped Steve take off his pants to even get into the shower, he sat Steve down on a small bench and called in doctor to look at his shoulder. Steve finally took a good look at it himself. He almost wished he hadn’t. The bruising was black and purple and yellow and as he stared it felt like the bones and blood and muscle, even the bruises themselves, were shifting under his skin, hot and inhuman. It was his body trying to heal itself, but it couldn’t. He tried to remember why he thought this would be something a man named Erskine would be interested in.

_“It’s going to need surgery now, you realize. Or maybe we’ll just cut it off. You can match your boyfriend. We’ll give you a new arm, how would you like that?”_

Steve tried not to shudder. They were not going to cut off his arm. No one was going to cut off his arm. He would be like Winter then, stronger, harder. But he knew it would hurt if they took his arm. Would he have to watch them do it? Or would they blindfold him, and which was worse? Seeing his arm being removed or not being allowed to see it? Getting one last chance to look at it before he was engulfed in navy once more; the next time he saw light he would have a metal arm. Would he have scars like Winter’s on his shoulders then, instead of bruising? Would he scream?

He felt nauseous as he stared, trying to shake off his thoughts and focus, but it was proving difficult. The new doctor’s gloved hands felt like the technicians’ gloved hands, sterile and warm but not warm. He tried to shake the disquiet in his head. She very carefully examined his shoulder from all sides, each gentle poke and touch burned. He could not be sure but he thought maybe his shoulder was getting worse. She ran her finger over the scar where Pierce had stabbed him, frowning. It was almost healed, a white, mean line standing out from his bruised skin.

“If this had been popped back in when it had first happened, with your healing you probably would’ve been fine, Captain.” She said softly. “But it’s been almost a week, and you’ve been using your shoulder the whole time, right?” He nodded at her. “And the knife wound didn’t help a bit.”

“No shit,” said Clint from the doorway of the bathroom.

“Right, done with the arm. I’m just gonna give you a quick once-over, okay?”

The others kept talking above him. Or perhaps they were talking to him, but Steve was barely listening. He could not even hear them then. The doctor’s fingers were gentle, but Steve was unnerved, as she peeled back the bandages from before. They felt too much like the technicians’ fingers as she revealed the scars on his body, white and almost healed over by now. She murmured questions at him from far away but the words were jumbling. She should be taking notes, typing away at hercomputer. There was no computer in the bathroom, but she should be adding to the file. WS-Echo, designation Sentinel. _Put in a note; every time he closed his eyes the world turned navy blindfold._ Was his blood pressure right this time? He was functional. He had not lost more than 60% of his blood, he thought, and he healed faster than he should have anyway.

The light in the bathroom was too bright, the green flickering fluorescents were not here, and it felt wrong, the world looked wrong. He was blinking, trying to make it make sense, trying to make the colors work. He could not see straight, and his vision was tunneling, going dark around the edges. They would wipe him again, he knew it, _he knew it_. No amount of maintenance would fix him. Even the air here was fresher, even if it was not going into his lungs properly, and there was a window open in his hospital room with the burningly blue sky outside and—

“Steve?”

He flinched, finally looking and seeing the doctor and Sam once more. They stood in front of him cautiously, completely still. He pulled his arm from her hand, not caring about the jolt of pain in his shoulder. “Stop, please,” he whispered. He expected a shock from the collar. Instead, her hands were immediately gone and she took a step back.

“Steve, hey. You’re okay. You’re safe here. We were gonna get ready for you to take a shower, do you remember?” He nodded at Sam. “Where’d you go just now? So we can avoid doing that again, okay?”

Steve gaped at him, trying to think. He realized he had pressed himself back into the wall on the bench as far as he could, tucked against the counter with the sink and the tile wall behind him. He was always doing that. He hated himself for it; he should be fighting, he should be standing. He was panting, his heart was pounding, he was shaking. When had that happened?

“I—“ he shut his eyes before remembering the blindfold and Pierce and feeling nauseous all over again. But as his eyes darted around the room, the nausea did not leave; he finally was able to focus on the toilet on the other wall of the bathroom and just barely made it before vomiting violently, his whole body feeling like it was breaking apart under his skin. If he kept heaving hard enough all the pieces of him that weren’t fitting together would come out and he would finally have some peace.

“He needs an MRI, this is killing him,” Sam’s voice said from far away.

“It can’t happen with that collar still on him,” the doctor replied.

“Well then we get it off him!”

“If we knew how we would.”

“Stark might know,” Clint said. “Or he’d be able to figure it out, I’d bet.”

“Call him.”

“Nat said—“

“Natasha will agree. Battle’s over, this is regrouping. Call Stark. We’ll go to him if we have to. We’ve waited long enough.”

“Fine.”

Steve’s body finally stopped shuddering and he rested his face on the toilet bowl seat, nostrils burning from stomach acid, mouth tasting foul. He was ready to go back to sleep here in the bathroom, cool tile welcome against his burning skin. He felt Sam’s hand on his back, and the contact against his skin slowly brought him out from his stupor. He groaned and sank from the toilet and lay right there on the tile floor. Not cement, but he did not even care at this point. Everything felt wrong. He felt Sam sit down behind him, thigh pressing against Steve’s back, leaning against a nearby cabinet, laying his hand gently on Steve’s head. He closed his eyes, and it was navy, but at least Sam was there; like an anchor holding him down, keeping him on this plane of existence.

“So much for that shower, huh?” he asked. Steve groaned again, trying to apologize, but he could not get his mouth to work. “It’s okay, we’ll try again in a little bit. You don’t have to do anything, we can stay here or go back to the room. Just rest.”

His body slowly stopped shaking and he pressed back a little into Sam’s leg. “You shouldn’t be here,” hefinally whispered. “I’m sorry. You had a life.” _I’m sorry, I’m sorry._

“Captain America needed some help. Can’t think of a better reason to shake things up. I don’t mind it, alright? Got to fight some bad guys, getting to help some good guys. There are worse things.”

Steve nodded against the tile. He vaguely heard Clint walk out into the hospital room, talking on his phone. He missed Winter. He missed Bucky. Winter was the only thing that made sense in all this. They could wipe him again and again, but he knew that in all this he would come crawling back to Winter. It was comforting and terrifying all at once. Nothing felt solid except for Winter. It felt like his thoughts would not stick, and his memories were still burning.

“What’s happening to me?”

_You’re an asset of Hydra._

Sam sighed, “We’ll find out soon, okay? I promise.”

He swallowed, thinking about Winter, trying to parse out the terrible, painful throughs running in his mind. He did not want to close his eyes, but his eyelids grew heavy on their own. “Okay.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I got a brain-bug for another, even darker, grimmer fic {HTP brand dark, which is something I've never done before, so I'm a little freaked}, so I'm simultaneously working on that and this fic and a college au, and my brain is falling apart. It's very exciting).
> 
> God bless Sam Wilson. Posting this chapter a little earlier, because I've got a weird schedule coming up. Aren't you kids lucky? And poor Steve. I'm really not treating him very well. It's very bad.
> 
> I'm Betsy, I'm allergic to avocados and I'm on [tumblr](http://batraquomancy.tumblr.com)
> 
> Also, I'd like to send a HUGE HUGE thank you to everyone leaving such nice comments here. I'm flabbergasted. My gasteds are flabbered. It's nuts! Thank you, thank you, thank you! *blows ten thousand kisses*


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up: There is a dream-sequence pseudo-rape depicted in this chapter briefly. If that's not your cup of tea, skip on.

He dreamed.

He was walking through the snow, bare feet leaving red splotches of blood behind him. He had to find him. He fell from the train. He was cold, and he was lost, spinning around the vast expanse of winter wastes looking, screaming with no sound coming out.

There was a gun in his hand. The weight was familiar, and the handle was still warm, as if someone had just passed it to him. There were fingers on his lips. Someone was kneeling in front of him, but he was just black shape in the snow, featureless and scared.

“No, please don’t make me,” he whispered.

“Kill him, Asset.”

He pointed the gun—

“No!” He jerked awake, lying in the snow. No, on the tile floor. Sam ran his hand up and down his arm.

“It’s alright. You’re alright,” Sam whispered. “It’s okay. We’re in the bathroom in the hospital.”

He shuddered and Sam pulled a blanket over his shoulder. He had no idea where it had come from and it was so different from the cool tile beneath him.

* * *

He dreamed.

“Put your hands behind your back, hold your arms,” Pierce said. “Do not move them until I say.” He tried to shake his head, to step away but he couldn’t. His arms moved behind him. He crashed to his knees and felt the carpet beneath him, cold like snow. He was naked. Pierce’s hands were everywhere, touching his skin, his face, his lips, his stomach, between his legs. He tried to jerk away but he couldn’t.

“We can program you to like this,” Pierce whispered in his ears.

 _Please, please, no, stop, god please stop—_ he was sobbing and he was trying to scream but no sound was coming out. He was on his back with his trapped hands above his head in the cuffs, his neck stuck to the floor.Rumlow was there, and Rollins and Pierce and all the Hydra agents. The grease-slick barrel of a gun was in his mouth, leather gloves were on his skin, touching him everywhere, _everywhere_ , and he could not get away, all he could do was sob and scream with no sound coming out.

“Steve! Steve wake up!”

There were hands on his shoulders and _everywhere, everywhere, everywhere,_ he could finally almost move and lashed out, arm connecting with something solid as he scrambled on the snowy floor.

“Fuck!”

“Steve, it’s alright! It was just a dream, just a nightmare, you’re okay.”

He looked and saw — _Pierce, Rumlow, Rollins, Hydra —_ Sam and Clint looking at him; Clint was holding his nose and blood was dripping down his face. But there were still hands everywhere, as he scrambled back from the others, reaching out for him, pulling him down to where he could not fight. “No! Don’t touch me, stop, stop, please—“

“Steve, no one’s touching you, you’re alright. We’re in the hospital, do you remember?”

He gasped for air, looking around. All around him was grey and white tiles. The bathroom. He was in the bathroom. There was no snow, there were no hands. He still felt exposed and naked and raw. He turned away from Clint and Sam staring down at the ground, furiously trying to wipe his wet face but couldn’t. 

“Steve?” Sam was crouching in front of him, hands up placatingly. 

“I-I think I want to take that shower now.” If the water were boiling hot, if he scrubbed hard enough maybe he wouldn’t feel this way. He could wash the hands off of him.

“Okay. Okay. Can you do me a favor first? I need you to let go of your arms. You’re bleeding.” Steve looked down and realized he was holding his arms in front of him, fingers digging into his own flesh, drawing blood. He froze, horrified. It was just like before, with Winter in the room with the carpet. He wasn’t going to be able to let go. Pierce had ordered him not to. Pierce had control of him even in his dreams, even in death. He was shaking his head, he could not tear his eyes off the gouges he was carving into his arm.

“I’m going to touch you on the arms, is that okay?” Sam asked.

Steve nodded because it kept him from screaming, forcing himself not to flinch and failing when Sam lay his hands over Steve’s on his arms. Sam very gently pulled them away from his bleeding arms before Steve’s brain caught up with him and he could finally pull his hands down. The panic still palpable in his throat. A low curse fell from his lips without his bidding. Blood dribbled down his arms slowly, the wounds already starting to heal.

“Can you stand up?”

Steve nodded once more and after a few moments and some maneuvering to take off his pants without, was in the shower, glad there was only soap inside, nothing he could use to help scrape off all of his skin and all of the hands that he thought were still ghosting over his body. He would stand in the shower with no more skin if he could. And glad too that Sam and Clint kept a running commentary on everything and anything, voices echoing kindly over the tiles. It kept him grounded, kept him there, kept him from slipping down the drain with the grime and dried blood that marred the white tile brown and red. He waited for the yellow and black shifting bruises on his shoulder to wash off as well, but they stayed, no matter how he blinked at them. As he reached to turn off the faucet he considered turning it hotter, burning something — though he did not know what — out of him; having it boil out of his blood and through his skin. He didn’t. He turned off the water, grabbed the towel Sam handed through around the curtain and dried off, wrapping it around his waist. An unexpected rush of relief poured through him when he pulled on the fresh, clean clothes Clint had found him, and his shoulder was back in the sling.

He went back into the bed, only sparing one glance at the corner where he had slept before, clean of Bucky’s blood now, before lying down and falling back into the navy.

* * *

He dreamed. 

“I’ll be better. I’ll be good,” Winter whispered.

“Where are we going, Bucky?” Sentinel asked as he followed Winter through the compound. The green fluorescent lights flickered over them, making Winter’s skin look even more pale and sickly than usual. Winter turned around and faced him. They stood face to face in the hallway, and Winter started working the clasps on Sentinel’s uniform. Their faces were close, Sentinel was smiling, lips almost touching Winter’s skin. He inched closer still, putting his hands on Winter’s hips, pressing their bodies flush together. They were both so warm. He almost could not feel the snow falling over them.

The uniform grew tighter and tighter as Winter worked; black leather, wrapping protectively around his body, straps and holsters at his sides, a red star on his shoulder. His arm looked metal but still felt like his arm. He wondered if Bucky liked it. Winter leaned forward, their lips almost brushing together and Sentinel could almost taste the air he was breathing. There was cinnamon, there was blood.

“Let it happen.”

Sentinel blinked. Winter pressed something into his hand, weighted, metal, warm from where Winter had been holding it. Bucky scrapped his teeth on that spot on his jaw that left his legs trembling in the thick combat boots. It was snowing but both of them together felt so warm, so right. Winter pulled back and met Steve’s eyes, “Let it happen.”

“W-wait–“

Winter pressed their foreheads together before turning Steve’s face to the side. There on the ground, on the snow, there was a man kneeling, gagged and blindfolded.

“Kill him, Asset.”

“No,” Steve whispered. “I can’t.” _Please don’t make me._

“Kill him.”

The gun was in his hand. Bucky’s lips were on his neck. The command was in his mind. 

“Please don’t make me.”

There were tears running down his face. His hand was shaking. His hand was already raised, his finger was on the trigger. Bucky looked into his face.

“Let it happen, Stevie.”

His eyes were so blue. He smelled like cinnamon.

“Okay, Buck.”

Sentinel pulled the trigger. Again, and again, and again.

 

He jerked awake in the dark hospital room with a gasp. Sam and Clint were asleep on the chairs next to his bed. He rolled over to his side and curled in on himself. He did not sleep for the rest of the night.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew. Okay. Just fyi, putting this chapter up, then chapter 21 tomorrow (aren't you kids lucky!), and then it'll be a little while until the next one, possibly even as late as next weekend. Sorry! But chapter 21 is really angsty (or I think it is, I keep rereading it and am getting insecure about it), so hopefully it'll tide ya. :D
> 
> (I need to reply to all your nice comments too. You guys! You guys. You guys are the best. Every single comment notification in my email just brightens my whole day! Thank you thank you thank you!)
> 
> I'm Betsy and I abuse the dream sequence in literally every single thing I write. Find me on [tumblr](http://batraquomancy.tumblr.com) and tell me I'm a putz!


	21. Chapter 21

“Let me see you,” Bucky said from the hospital bed.

_“Do not look into his eye.”_ That was Natasha’s stipulation for letting Steve and Bucky spend time together after he got out from his surgery. He had been asleep for two days, but he was healing fast, almost as fast as Steve did. They would be going to Stark’s by the end of the day. _“The imprint is made stronger with eye contact, you know this, Steve.”_

Steve was not sure he wanted to look into Bucky’s eye anyway. He could not sleep, afraid of the dreams where Bucky told him to kill. Would they bleed into real life like the dream about Pierce? Looking at Bucky would be the end of him. But the imprint was telling him the exact opposite, something inside of him was telling him the exact opposite. All he wanted was to turn and look at Bucky and never stop. Even more, a part of him beyond the imprint, beyond the nightmares wanted the same. It was irrational. He wanted to be in the snow in Switzerland where it was too dark to look someone in the eye, but looking Bucky in the eye all the same. It was a physical ache in his chest. He wanted to look at Bucky, he was scared to look at Winter, he wanted to get lost in their eyes.

He would stay lost forever. He knew he would. If he let it happen, it _would_ happen. That scared him more than the imprint. Chemicals and commands meant nothing in the long run; he would be Bucky’s, he would be Winter’s.

“I’m right here,” Steve replied. He reached over and took Bucky’s hand in his own, the metal cool against his skin. He looked at it for a long time. The way the metal caught the light, even though now it was dull from lack of cleaning, was almost hypnotic. Bucky never used to have a metal arm, but Winter always had one. It was a part of him. The metal was familiar and right, and entirely, utterly wrong. He absentmindedly intertwined their fingers, feeling the plates shift and feeling more than hearing the hydraulics whirr and hum deep within Bucky’s arm. He almost thought he could feel it on his skin, on his face.

“Sentinel,” Bucky whispered. No, _Winter_ whispered; and he wanted to look at the other man so much. Steve could not separate them in his mind, in the same way he could not separate Steve’s flash-bright, patchy memories and Sentinel’s week’s worth of living — he was supposed to go in the chair after seven days, and the dread of it was floating in the back of his mind. _Time’s up —_ He thought about the way he and Bucky used to be, and how he and Winter were so different now. The two of them were four unique people sitting in a hospital room holding hands; one metal, one flesh.

Steve stared at the metal arm. “Do you remember what you used to call me?”

“What do you mean?”

“Before.”

“The others call you ‘Steve.’”

“But do you remember what you called me?”

“Do you?”

“Yes.” _Stevie._ “It came back when you left the Hydra compound the first time.” _Stevie. You used to call me Stevie. Please, just—_ He did not want to tell Bucky that though. He wanted him to remember on his own. The memory might hurt Bucky, and that was the last thing Steve wanted. Even now things would set off a flash or chain of memories that hurt terribly; could a brain be bruised? he thought perhaps his was. Steve did not want to inflict that kind of pain on even the worst of people, let alone Bucky. There was a worse option too; the memory would not hurt Bucky at all. The name ’Stevie’ could mean nothing to him. It had been too long or he had been wiped too many times. Or it never had meant a thing to him in the first place. Steve wanted Bucky to call him Stevie like he wanted oxygen in his lungs; the idea that Bucky might not want the same was something Steve could not bring himself to face yet.

He also thought it might not matter if he let himself meet Bucky’s eyes. He knew it would not matter then. He would be Bucky’s. Everything would be better. He would not have to hear ‘Stevie’ again, he would be alright without it.

Steve changed the subject. “We’re going to New York. There’s someone there who might be able to take the collar off. He’s got a medical wing in his building too. They’ll look after you, fix my shoulder.”

“Sentinel, let me see you.”

“I’m right here. You’re looking right at me,” Steve said once more. He looked over towards the window, at the wall, at the foot of Bucky’s bed, anywhere but— “We used to live in New York, d’you remember?”

“Yes.”

Steve almost met Bucky’s eyes, startled, but stopped himself, glancing at Bucky’s shoulder, his chin for a moment before looking out the window once more. His hand tightened on Bucky’s though, the metal unyielding but right against his palm.

“Really?”

“Almost.” He sighed. Out of the corner of his eye, Steve saw Bucky turn to look out the window too. “It’s not a memory, it’s just something. After the Russians I got out for a little while. I ran to New York, but I was confused. That’s where they found me, it’s in my file, I’ve read it. I think I was looking for a building, but there was a big grocery store where it was supposed to be.”

Why did he remember that? a grocery store of all things, and not what he used to call Steve? Steve bit his lip and watched as the clouds passed by the window slowly. It still hurt to look at the sky; he was squinting against the bright pain. 

“Are you sleeping?” Winter asked.

“A little, but— but not well,” he confessed. “And sometimes I don’t feel well enough to sleep.”

“You’re sick?”

“S-sometimes. I throw up sometimes.”

“And you’re dreaming?”

He bit his lip. “Yeah.”

“I don’t know why you’re sick, but the dreams are bad, yeah? That comes from not having the base programming. The dreams are worse. And they get worse before they get better, if they… I haven’t— I don’t know if they’ll get better. I’ve never had enough time to find out. Or I get the base programming after a wipe.”

“I can’t imagine the dreams getting worse,” his voice grew soft again. _The gun was in his hand. He pulled the trigger. He let it happen._ He shuddered looking down at his lap.

Bucky squeezed his hand. “The dreams will get worse. They always do.” He pulled at Steve’s hand, sliding over a little on the hospital bed. “Come here.”

Steve allowed himself to move up and sit next to Bucky on the bed. He knew he shouldn’t. “ _Physical contact won’t help you break the imprint either,”_ Nat had said. _“Don’t touch him.”_ It felt like his body was finally starting to become his again when he settled against Bucky. Bucky wrapped the metal arm around Steve’s shoulders, and Steve curled into his chest, letting out a breath that had been stuck in his throat. He was perhaps a little bigger than Bucky, but he fit there in Bucky’s arms, in Winter’s arms. It felt like something tight within him was slowly growing loose. He wanted this. He sighed into Bucky, closing his eyes before remembering the blindfold and flinching deeper into his chest, staring down at the hospital bed. Bucky ran a hand down his back.

“What is it?”

“I’m fine.”

“Sentinel… Se-Steve?”

“I can’t close my eyes.” _I can’t look at you._ “It’s— it’s the blindfold.” _It’s the imprint._ The words were wet in his throat, and he hated how weak he sounded. Some part of him remembered that he could tell Bucky everything too, but that was not true anymore. How could he tell Bucky what was wrong? _I can’t look at you. You’ll tell me to kill someone._

_And I’ll do it._

“Pierce is dead.” Winter said it like it was meant to be a comfort. Maybe it was. 

“Yes.” _But I still can’t close my eyes._

“The blindfold is just a piece of cloth.”

“I know that.” _But it’s still there._

Winter sighed underneath him, pulling him in closer to his chest. He was warm and Steve was slowly starting to melt into the embrace. It felt so right.

They sat together for a long while. Steve watched the line of the hospital blanket over Bucky’s thighs. He had trouble holding onto single thoughts. He assumed that came from the lack of base programming as well. The more he thought on something the less solid anything else seemed; in a way it was perfect. The perfect way to control someone, and the perfect way to torture someone. He was not sure of anything. He almost wished he was back at the Hydra compound receiving orders and clear, unquestionable pain. That made more sense. More sense than staying with Natasha and Clint and Sam; flying to New York to meet a friend he did not remember who may or may not get the collar off of him. Would Winter recognize him without the collar?

“I know why you won’t look at me,” Bucky said, interrupting his flashing thoughts. “I would let you cut out my eyes if it would help. But it won’t help.”

Steve jerked up on the bed at that. Again, he almost turned and met Bucky’s eye before remembering he shouldn’t, he couldn’t. That was an image that made him feel sick. Winter’s blue eyes were all that was grounding him. Bucky ran a hand up and down his back.

He gripped the sheets of the hospital bed under his hand, shaking his head. That was worse than the blindfold; he felt sick to his stomach. “I don’t want that. Don’t say that.”

“I would do it.”

“Why? Where did that even come from?”

“That’s why you won’t look at me, isn’t it? The imprint is better with eye contact. You feel it, don’t you? You want to look at me.”

“Yes.”

“You are very strong. The others— I— you _should_ have looked at me by now.”

“Natasha told me not to,” he murmured. It was not a lie, but it was not true either. “I can’t— I don’t—“ he cut himself off, frustrated, scared.

“Sen— Steve… I won’t—” he spoke slowly, then stopped himself.

“I want to. I want to see you so badly.” Steve stared at the bed, trying and failing to stay calm. “Damn it,” he whispered. “God damn it.” The words almost made him feel better; Steve’s words, something he would have said before the chair. Bucky’s hand was still on his back, anchoring him, unmoving and a little limp.

Steve looked out the window once more. It was easier in a lot ways. Bucky sat behind him, looking unfocused out of the corner of Steve’s eye. They sat quietly, so quietly. The only sound was their breathing, and Steve felt like he could barely do that. Yes, the air went in and out of his lungs the way it was meant to, but he wondered why it did. He could almost hear Winter telling him to grab his asthma cigarettes from where he sat silent and non-responsive on the bed behind him. He was almost ready to tell him that asthma cigarettes didn’t work, remember? _They’re just fuss and advertising, they make it worse, Buck._

“Romanov wants what’s best for you. I do too,” Bucky finally said, coming back to the conversation.

“I know.”

“But that is not a decision for her to make.” Steve did not reply. “I think there is more than just the imprint. We knew each other. _Know_ each other. There is something more.”

“I remembered something.” _I love you, I’ve been loving you since before I knew your name._  

“What did you remember?”

“Just— you’re right. There is something more.” _I wish I could see you._ He felt Bucky shift on the bed behind him and press his forehead against Steve’s back. “What do you want to do? Think hard. If you think hard enough you can separate the imprint from real life.”

Steve sat with Bucky at his back and tried to pull together his thoughts long enough to make something, anything, make sense. Winter was right. If he thought about it hard enough he could almost differentiate between the imprint and reality, but even reality was a shifting variable thing. He thought of snow, and blindfolds, and guns and Lincoln Memorial, and hands on his skin.

He reached around and found Bucky’s flesh hand, and held it in his own. Even that felt like the pull of the imprint, but it also felt familiar. It was impossible, but the callouses, the stretch of his skin, the knuckles were all the same as they had been years ago. He thought of meeting Winter’s eyes and immediately having Winter order him to do something terrible. It was possible. Winter could tell him to kill Natasha, Sam, Clint, and he would do it. But something deeper, something darker and desperate and bleeding out the last glimmer of hope in him knew that Winter, that Bucky, would not do that. 

“I want to look at you.” The words came out as a whisper.

“Are you sure?”

“It’s not the imprint.”

“Are you sure?” He spoke slowly, cautiously.

“I’m sure. I want this.” He could barely think, barely see. “I need this.”

Bucky gave Steve’s hand a soft squeeze. Steve closed his eyes once more, steadying himself, even with the flash of the navy blindfold making him feel lost and terrified. He turned around on the bed, still looking down at the sheets, facing Bucky, but not meeting his eye, not yet.

“This shouldn’t have happened to us,” Steve said, more to himself than Winter. “This shouldn’t have happened to you.” _You should have caught him._

“But it did.”

_I’ll never forgive you._

That was not a good enough answer. Steve wanted to understand. He was desperate for it. Meeting Bucky’s eye might make things make more sense. Or it would just be curing the symptom, not the disease.

He looked up. Their eyes met.

And there was Bucky, Winter. Steve felt as if he was seeing him for the first time, for the millionth time. His heartbeat was steady, his mind clear, his soul open. _Oh, it’s you. It’s always been you._ He was still too pale and looked like he had been through a war — and he had, hadn’t he? — but he was still there, in front of Steve, whole, complete, perfect. The world stopped spinning. He smiled, and Bucky smiled back Flash flood fast, wildfire hot, and earthquake loud Steve felt all the confusion, the pain, and the horror of these last few days slip out of him. It was a bloodletting, it was toxins leaving from his very pores. There was light and chemicals and Steve was certain he would just fall apart right there on the bed for the way his body unclenched and grew warm.

Without thinking he leaned forward pressed his lips to Bucky’s. Finally. This was it. This was all he needed; more than food, than water, than oxygen. This was right. He was home. _This. This I understand._ He had been waiting for so long. He was back in the forest in Switzerland like the memory, Bucky’s lips were right and did not taste like Steve’s blood. _I love you. I’ve loved you since before I knew your name._ There was the smell of cinnamon cookies and the docks in Brooklyn. His heart was pounding happily in his chest, and a surge of feeling flooded him, pooling in his core, warming his whole body, shivering into his skin like electricity.

This was what he had been missing; a last puzzle piece clicking into place for a brief, perfect moment.

* * *

Bucky did not kiss back. Bucky tensed underneath him. Steve sat back and saw Bucky looking at him in horror, face pale, eyes wide.

“What are you doing?” Bucky asked sharply. Sentinel flinched, pulling back. He was frozen under Bucky’s, under Winter’s gaze now. “Why did you do that?” Winter asked.

“I—that’s what we—“

“You can’t do that.”

“What?” His stomach dropped, he stared at Winter uncomprehending. Moments ago everything was right, but now? 

“You’re confused,” Winter deliberately looked away from Sentinel. It felt like a slap in the face; all he wanted was to see Winter, have their eyes locked forever. He almost whimpered. Winter continued, “Do not do that again.”

“I don’t understand. That’s what we did. This is who we—“

“Stop!” he hissed. Sentinel flinched again, sliding a little ways back on the bed. “You’re wrong. And after everything that’s happened?”

“What do you—“

“What Pierce has done to you? Done to us? To me? And you would do the same?”

“It’s not the same!”

“It is! I thought when they put you in the chair that you were Hydra’s enemy, but maybe you were just one of them and misstepped. You’re one of them—”

“It’s not like that,” he said. His voice was so soft though, he wondered if Winter could even hear it. He used to speak with such strength before the chair. He thought he had been feeling some of that strength return when he looked at Bucky. “Please, it’s not like that, not like that— I didn’t mean—”

“You’re confused. You don’t know what you are doing.”

“No,” he whispered. He tried and failed not to sound frantic as the confusion crept in, as the world seemed unsteady once more. “No, please. I know this, I know you—“

“You don’t. When did you remember this?” Sentinel did not respond. “After Pierce made us— after that night?” Sentinel did not respond. Winter was right. That’s when the memory came back. “I did not want you there. He is cruel. And without the base programming you are confused. That is all that has happened. You’re just confused.” Sentinel did not respond, he curled in on himself, holding his bad arm close to his stomach. Winter put his hands on Sentinel’s shoulders, and Sentinel leaned into the touch. His eyes stung. “You did not mean it, Sentinel. You’re confused. I know you did not mean it.”

Sentinel tried to make his thoughts line up once more. Everything had been so right before. A rug had been pulled out from under his feet; he was falling through his mind with no anchor, nothing real to hold onto anymore. He could hear his breaths coming hot and heavy in his lungs, and he could feel himself rocking back and forth on the bed, but he was not there. All that held him down was Winter’s hands on his shoulders.

“I don’t understand,” he whispered. “I know we—“

Winter shook his head. “You are good. You would not hurt me like they do.”

“I wasn’t hurting— was I? It was good— I thought it was—” He gasped and sputtered, staring at Winter’s chest. “I don’t understand, I don’t understand, I don’t understand—“

A metal thumb brushed a tear of of his cheek, and held him still. He thought of that night, of Pierce and of Winter against his skin.

“It’s alright,” Winter said. But it wasn’t alright. He was shaking his head and grasping at the flashes of memories that burned behind his eyelids. He thought of the memory. The forest outside of camp in Switzerland. It felt so real.

But maybe it was not real. He said it wasn’t real.

Maybe Bucky only kissed him when Pierce told him to, with blood on his lips.

“But I lo—“

He stopped himself.

Winter frowned at him. 

Steve pulled himself away and off the hospital bed. “I have to go,” he said stepping away. It almost hurt to do so. Everything was telling him not to leave, but he was so confused, and with Bucky there, but not there, not the way he was supposed to be, Steve could not think.

“Sentinel?” Steve turned around and met Winter’s eyes once more. He still wanted to crash back into him, hold on and never let go. Was that just the imprint? _I’ve loved you since before I knew your name._ “It will be alright.”

Steve forced himself to look away, down at the floor of the hospital. The smooth tile with it’s bland pattern felt like it was shifting under him as badly as his memories were shifting inside of him. He was falling, sinking into the taupe floor. He thought of the blindfold, of Winter’s lips on his, and he had done that to him. He was worse than Pierce.

“You’re right. I’m confused,” he whispered after a moment. “I need to—“ he took a step back, he looked around for something, anything to ground him but he was gone. He was lost. “We’re going to New York. You—you should rest.”

They were quiet for a moment as Steve stepped away, back finally hitting the door, hand finally finding the knob.

“I will see you in a few hours then,” Winter said. “You should rest, too.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve whispered, Sentinel whispered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—“

“It’s alright.”

It wasn’t alright. Steve stepped outside the hospital room and closed the door behind him. Sam sat on a chair nearby putting down his magazine when he saw Steve, standing and walking over to him.

“Steve? Is everything okay?”

Steve looked at Sam, could not meet his eyes, and swallowed back a sob. He shook his head, but could barely speak.

“Let’s get you back to your room, get you ready for the flight to New York. How’s that sound?”

Steve nodded, following Sam and sparing one last look back at Bucky’s door. _Please,_ he felt himself whisper, inaudible, lost to the sound of the hospital, _I don’t understand…_

_I loved you._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all said you wanted longer chapters and more Bucky... joke's on you, this is emotionally devastating! *cackles into the sunset*
> 
> So, gonna be a few days until the next chapter, possibly even Wednesday/Thursday. Sorry, real life blues. You know how it goes.
> 
> I'm Betsy, I [tumbl](http://batraquomancy.tumblr.com) and okcupid is the worst, why am I even bothering? Yipes yipes yipes.


	22. Chapter 22

The trip to New York was tense before they even left the hospital.

Clint and Natasha were upset with Sam for pushing to let Steve see Bucky. Sam was upset with Natasha for being so volatile to Bucky. Natasha was upset with Steve for meeting Bucky’s eyes and reinforcing the imprint, and was upset with Bucky still for the implication that she would take Sentinel and Winter on behalf of S.H.I.E.L.D., as well as for upsetting Steve. Steve had not told anyone what had happened between him and Bucky in the hospital room, but they had all seen how confused and anguished he had been afterwards, and it did nothing to endear Bucky to them.

And they were upset with Steve for staying with Bucky even after what had happened. They did not mean to be upset, but Steve could tell they were all the same. They were worried. Even now Steve could not pull himself away from Bucky. If he was honest, he was upset with himself.

He still did not understand. He had been so certain as to what they were to each other before the chair. _Lovers_ was a word that came to mind, but it did not sound quite right. Maybe they did not have a label, but it did not matter because it had not been real. Steve would never want to hurt Bucky that way, the way Pierce had hurt Bucky so many times before, had hurt Steve before he had been rescued.

But still he wanted it. It was still there and he hated himself for it. It did not feel cruel the way Pierce had been. He imagined smiling into Bucky’s skin and pressing his face into the crook of Bucky’s neck and pressing his lips to Bucky’s. He imagined skin on skin, warm and perfect, and—

A star carved into his chest, blood on his lips, a hand between his legs, drowning in navy—

No, Pierce had done that to them. That was all. He was just confused. He and Bucky weren’t like that. It was wrong for him to think that way. He was just confused.

“We can’t trust him with the location of the hangar,” Natasha said. She, Clint and Sam were talking at the doorway to the hospital, waiting to step out and drive to the airplane Stark had arranged for them. Steve and Bucky stood a little ways away. Close enough to still be part of the conversation if they wished, but still apart.

“I doubt he’s going to go crawling back to Hydra and say ‘Yeah, they got one secret hangar that they barely use right here,’” Sam replied.

“No, he’s staying hooded. We can’t trust him.”

“He’s not a prisoner, he turned himself over willingly.”

“Cover my eyes, it doesn’t matter,” Bucky called out to the others.

“Good, that’s settled,” Natasha said.

“But what about Steve?” asked Clint.

“What about Steve?” Sam turned and glared at the two assassins. Steve watched as Clint and Nat had a conversation with their eyes alone, silently speaking volumes to each other. “Clint, what about Steve?”

“He can’t know about the hangar either. Barnes could order him to reveal the location.”

Steve listened quietly. Clint was right. They would have to—

“So what? You’re gonna put Captain America in a hood like a criminal? Gonna handcuff him too?”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Sam.”

“Like hell I won’t be.”

“We just cover his eyes too. It’s not a big deal.”

Steve was frozen. He could not even protest if he wanted to. A blindfold. They were going to blindfold him. Already he could feel the knives ghosting over his skin and the drowning feeling of nothing surrounding him. The only thing anchoring him was Bucky’s hand on his arm.

“You don’t need to cover his eyes. I will make sure he does not see,” Bucky said, moving to stand in front of Steve.

“Excuse me?” Natasha asked. “You really think we’re going to believe that?”

“Don’t cover his eyes,” Bucky said again.

“So you are going to use him to find out where the hangar is?”

“No!” he scoffed turning away, still shielding Steve with his body.

“Then what? What possible reason can you have for letting him keep his sight?”

“None. I don’t need a reason. He just—“

“What?”

“He doesn’t like having his eyes closed, covered,” Bucky finally said. Steve looked down at the floor, feeling the other’s eyes on him, a flush rising on his cheeks. “They did that to him. Pierce did that to him. He doesn’t like it.”

The others were silent, staring at Steve and Bucky.

“He’s right,” Clint said softly. “When I found him he was blindfolded. I don’t know how long he’d been left that way.”

“Please. Don’t cover his eyes. I will make sure he does not look at the route. We’ll sit in the back, I won’t let him look.”

Natasha glared at Bucky for a moment before finally nodding, “Fine.”

A string of tension in Steve was cut then, he slumped into Bucky, relieved, not even realizing he had been so terrified. 

Clint glanced out the door, “Car’s here.”

Outside a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent was getting out of a green minivan, handing the keys to Clint. Steve stared at it, blinking. It was so… _normal_. He expected a black SUV, tinted windows, mounted artillery. He felt like there were eyes on him still. With a sigh he followed Bucky into the van, and sat next to him in the bench seat at the very back. Bucky was moving a little more slowly, gingerly, careful of his still-healing injuries, but Steve thought he saw it only because Bucky was letting him see it. Bucky stopped him as he tried to fasten his seatbelt, pulling Steve’s head down to his lap, and pushing him to roll over and face Bucky on his side. It was not entirely comfortable, he had to curl up his legs to fit on the seat, all he could see was Bucky’s stomach and the back of the bench. He could not map the route even if he wanted to.

But it felt right, despite being awkward. It was almost like being curled up against his leg in the cement cell, and Bucky placed a light hand on his bad shoulder. It sent shivers down his spine, and Steve easily curled in closer, pressing his face against the spot on Bucky’s body where his torso met his thigh, holding onto Bucky’s t-shirt loosely.

“What are you looking at?” Steve glanced up and saw Bucky glaring ahead of him.

“Nothing,” Sam replied softly. Steve could not see him, but felt eyes on his back. “It’s just—“

“What?”

“Is that the imprint? I haven’t seen him look this relaxed since before all this happened.”

Steve felt Bucky peer down at him, “Maybe a little.”

“Steve?” Sam asked. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he murmured back. Even now he was unsettled by the revelation. He was okay. All the world focused down to Bucky and him here. Even Bucky was almost superfluous as he lay there. He was almost alone. Beyond him was all the details he found he could now filter out; the noise of the street and hospital outside, the looks of the others. He did not have to meet anyone’s eye here. Even Bucky would have a hard time curling down to look him in the eye unless Steve turned up to face him. “I’m alright.”

“Alright, we’re moving out,” Clint said as he started the car. Steve felt Bucky’s hands move above him and with a quick glance saw him tying a blindfold around his eyes. Steve shuddered, wondering how Bucky could stand it.

Bucky held Steve still as they shifted, and he could feel the movement under him. He curled deeper into Bucky’s body.He could feel Sam and Natasha looking back at them occasionally. He reached up for Bucky’s hand and moved it to his head. Bucky gave a small laugh, and ran his fingers through Steve’s hair, his palm resting over his ear, muffling any noise. All he could see was the soft, cotton, grey t-shirt Bucky was wearing. It felt a little like drowning again, only it was not bad like the blindfold. The freedom to look around him was there, but he did not need it. All he had to do was breathe. He did not even have to remember anything. His mind grew blank.

It was inexplicably the best he had felt since all this had happened to him.

* * *

Things were calmer by the time they were in the air heading to New York. He had thrown up in a garbage can as they walked across the tarmac to the plane, the others watching on helpless. But he felt okay. He kept trying to tell them he felt okay. Whatever had happened to him in the van left Steve feeling insurmountably more whole; his mind was calm.

He joked softly with Sam and the others, and smiled at Bucky who would give him a small, careful smile back. He could meet the others’ eyes without flinching and held their gaze for longer, and he could meet Bucky’s eye without feeling as trapped and overwhelmed — _and in love_ — as usual.

Tony Stark’s plane was very nice. The seats were huge, and there was food and snacks available, and even Bucky was impressed by the electronic gizmos surrounding them. Natasha used the plane’s shower to clean up and Clint and Sam wolfed down three huge sandwiches each before falling asleep in the plush, large leather chairs. Steve was hungry and was sure Bucky was as well, but they were both having a hard time with the solid food. They sat in their seats, dividing the sandwiches down to their ingredients, and tearing them into little bits. It was methodical, meditative; they did it without speaking. Bucky finished his sandwich after an hour, Steve got half of his down. It felt heavy in his stomach and he pushed the rest of it away, looking out the window into the late afternoon sky.

The sun was setting, casting gorgeous orange, pink and blue light across the D.C. sky. The whole trip Steve watched out the window and watched the colors meld and churn in the sky, fire bright and kaleidoscoping before him before settling into the deep indigo purple of twilight. It was easy to sit, curled up in the large chair, his legs tucked in front of him and just gaze out into the sky. There were few memories from planes in his mind and none of them were as silent and comfortable as this. He knew this was not his first time flying in the air. He even considered the plane from before, the man with the red skull, but this one was so different that nothing cropped up in his mind. He was so grateful for that. The sky was beautiful.

Steve wanted to jump out of the plane. He wanted to lean out back first so he could face upwards and keep looking towards the sky as he fell. He wanted to crash through the clouds and air and oxygen and hit pavement. Then the memories wouldn’t hurt, would they? He could have Bucky then. He wouldn’t hurt Bucky then. The memories wouldn’t hurt.

He jerked back from the window at that thought with a gasp, completely mystified as to where it came from.

“Sentinel?” Bucky whispered next to him. “What is it?”

He shook his head, “Nothing.”

He felt Bucky’s eyes on him for a long time as he stared at the sandwich on the tray in front of him. He finally reached forward and slid it back towards himself and began to pick at it once more. Bucky finally closed his eyes and settled back to sleep in the chair.

He glanced out the window once more. He did not want to jump from the plane; he knew that as sure as he knew his name was—

He did not want to jump from the plane. There was something glad in him because that meant that he did not want to die. He thought he had jumped out of planes before, but this was different. He did not want it like this. Steve looked at the twilit sky, the first stars peaking out from behind wispy clouds.

“We’re coming into the city, and we’ll be landing shortly,” said the pilot’s voice over the airplane’s speakers, shaking him from his thoughts. He blinked. He knew the flight would be short but it felt like barely any time had passed at all. He looked out and the sky was darker. He lost time. Maybe he was falling from the plane already and he just didn’t know it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that was a hiatus. I feel almost bad because this chapter isn't nearly as interesting/angsty as the last one. Sorry about that. I think that last chapter was where I peaked. Whoops.
> 
> I'm Betsy, I'm playing on [tumblr](http://batraquomancy.tumblr.com) and I'm making pasta while trying not to spill stuff on my laptop


	23. Chapter 23

“You don’t write, you don’t call, then all of a sudden you’re dumping weird ass files onto my servers? blowing up government buildings without me? asking to come over and use my tools and expertise? borrowing my jet? What gives? Uncle Tony’s not good enough for tea and biscuits?”

The chipper voice echoed through the cement parking lot under his building. A man named Happy had driven the five of them from the airport to Stark Tower — sans blindfolds; everyone knew where Stark Tower was. The drive was still hard, Steve had stared at the floor of the limo most of the way, the memories surging forward to the front of his mind, making his head ache terribly. Surprisingly, it looked like Bucky was having the same reaction, glancing around out the windows, flinching and turning away just like Steve had. They squeezed together closer on the seat. Steve started tracing patterns with his finger idly onto Bucky’s metal hand, swirling lines and circles with no real reason behind them. Bucky sighed and leaned in and together they watched Steve’s finger move over the metal as if on its own. It was easier than looking out the window.

They were getting out from the parked limo when a short man with a goatee and a shirt stained with engine grease started towards them. Bucky immediately moved between Steve and the man, body tensing. But the voice, the walk, the tone; flashes upon flashes hit in Steve’s mind. Dark eyes opening surrounded by red metal; _Schwarma?_ Steve closed his eyes against the onslaught of memories, painfully red and gold, feeling Bucky step back into him, grateful for the press of his back against him.

The two of them stood back and watched as Clint, Sam and Natasha made their way towards him. Tony glanced at Steve and met his eye briefly, giving him a small, wary nod before turning towards the others.

“Hi Tony,” said Natasha sounding both terrifying and friendly. Steve almost laughed, even around the pain. He remembered that. He remembered the way Tony grinned back at her, slightly smug, slightly intimidated, entirely Tony.

“So you got the files?” Clint asked. “Wasn’t sure your little gizmo would work.”

“Do you even drink tea?” Nastasha added.

“Yes, I got the files, because of course my ‘gizmos’ work. I perused them over a nice cup of Earl Grey, alone in my manor without any of my supposed Avenge-y friends.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“What’d you think?”

“What d’you mean ‘what’d you think?’? They were files, I read them. Boring too, no pictures. You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

“Did anything pique your interest?” Natasha asked.

“You mean besides the fact that Hydra’s still around? Can I be interested in anything else? It’s all the talk these days. Have you seen the news?”

“Besides that.”

Tony paused, glancing back and forth between the two of them. “Okay, you got me, the files were interesting. Probably not sound theorizing, but an interesting hypothesis.”

“Hypothesis?” Sam asked. “What do you mean?”

“This maybe shouldn’t be something we talk about in a parking garage,” Natasha said, glancing around, glancing back at Steve and Bucky.

“Right, of course!” Tony gestured to the elevator. “Follow me.”

* * *

Tony Stark’s parking lot was nice, Tony Stark’s elevator was nice, the room they landed in after a surprisingly short ride in the nice elevator was very nice. Tony gestured for everyone to take off their shoes and stick them in a shoe rack — _“Pepper will kill me if I got dirt on the new carpets. White carpets! What was she thinking?”_   From the elevator there was a set of tile stairs that lead down to a comfortable common area. The tile gave way to thick, clean, white carpeting in a circle in the center of the room and expensive leather chairs and sofas gathered around a freestanding glass fireplace in the middle.

Steve and Bucky followed the others as they went to the chairs, but both opted to stay against the wall, leaning back and listening quietly to the conversation. Steve pulled his bad arm closer in to his body, absentmindedly running his fingernails along the material of the medical sling, while Bucky pulled at the arm of his left sleeve, tucking the metal hand into his sweatshirt’s pocket, completely hidden from view.

Tony and the others sat down in the chairs and he started talking once more.

“So, okay, most of the stuff on the servers that you hacked — well, that I hacked, you were just using my tech — were these ‘WS’ files, did you see ‘em? They’re programs. I didn’t go through the data yet ‘cause there were a lot of just observation notes, I was just trying to read the coding. I assumed they were mapping AI projections. Maybe Hydra was building some sort of robot? They would keep wiping the program when things got too glitchy, and just be running them through simulations, and adding sub-programming for whatever.”

The others sat quietly and listened. Steve did too, waiting for Tony to realize he was talking about them, he was talking about Steve, Steve’s _program_.

“It was weird,” Tony continued. “There were a lot of outside factors that wouldn’t crop up in normal everyday programming scenarios. It was like they were working with an already written AI program and putting stuff on top of that. Don’t get me started on the ‘imprinting’ subroutine. I don’t get it. Really threw off the other programming sometimes, and they kept doing it. What’s the point of that? Anyway, WS-Alpha was kept around, I guess base level example, but they slowly were churning through Bravo, Charlie, Delta, Echo. Each of those were new programs. WS-Echo was really weird. All the others got their foundational programming, but they just let Echo run without it. Bad computer daddy-ing no matter who you are.”

“It wasn’t AI,” Sam said finally.

“Pardon?”

“They weren’t programming AI.”

“Then what were they programming?”

“People,” Natasha said. “They were programming people.”

“No,” Tony said shaking his head. “That can’t be right. That kind of technology doesn’t exist, I would’ve heard about it by now. And it’s completely unethical likewise.”

“It’s Hydra, dude,” muttered Clint. “They’re not exactly up there in morals and ethics.”

“And the technology exists. We have proof.”

“That doesn’t make sense, though. The human brain doesn’t work like that. Changing it enough to even have enough room for that kind of thing would be impossible. Electroshock therapy on steroids maybe, _while_ getting pumped with steroids, _maybe_ , but the amount needed would just kill a person first.”

“It did kill people,” Bucky said at last. “Then they figured out how to make it not kill people.”

Tony blinked at him before looking back at the others. “Sorry, I should’ve asked this earlier: Who’s scary, shaggy Bucky-bear lookalike over there?”

“An acquaintance,” said Natasha.

“A friend,” said Sam.

“And what does he know about Hydra killing people?”

Bucky snorted; “A lot, Stark. More than you want to know.”

Tony sputtered for a moment before sighing and rubbing his hand over his face. “Okay, whatever. You said they were programming people?” he asked Natasha.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Why wouldn’t they program people?” Natasha said. “It’s extreme brainwashing. To make super soldiers they can control, to make slaves? The options are limitless. Where do you think I came from?”

“Yeah but the programs showed at most two subsets that might have had what I guess would be super soldier enhancements; Alpha and Echo. The others didn’t.”

“The others died,” Bucky said. “They were killed. They were not strong.”

“Did you kill them?”

“Stark, hold on,” said Sam, but Tony stopped him, holding up a hand.

“No, I did not kill them. But I was there when they died,” Bucky said. “They were not strong. They would not have survived as long anyway.”

“As long as what?”

“As long as me.”

“Right, so you seem sufficiently creepy and unstable. Can I hazard a guess that you’re WS-Echo? No base programming, ergo no social skills?”

“Tony—“ Clint sighed. “Step it back.”

“I’m not Echo. I’m Alpha.”

“You’re the great success program of Hydra? Then who’s Echo? The free-range computer glitch allowed to run completely off the walls without foundational programming? I’m sure he’s a riot compared to you.”

Natasha sighed, “God, for someone so smart you really are an idiot.” Tony stared at her. “You said Alpha and Echo were the only ones with super-soldier capabilities. Who’s the only other super-soldier you know, Tony?”

“One that Hydra has a personal vendetta against?” Clint added.

Tony grew still, and finally turned and looked at Steve. Steve could only meet his eye for a moment before looking down at the floor in front of them, staring at where the tile turned to carpet. He could still feel Tony’s eyes on him though. 

“You’re WS-Echo?” Tony finally asked.

“Yes,” replied Steve, replied Sentinel very softly. The word was raspy and caught in his throat.

Tony swallowed and stared at him, eyes feeling heavy on Steve’s skin. Steve was expecting a thousand questions. He barely remembered Tony but he knew the man must be running through every possible scenario, every possible line of code he went through in a whole new light, piecing together things about Steve that maybe Steve did not even know. Steve felt tense against the wall, and Bucky slid minutely closer to him, minutely in front of him, like a shield at his arm ready to be raised in front of him in an instant.

But instead, after a moment Tony sighed, “It’s late, you guys have been through the shitter. We can start the real work tomorrow. Why don’t I show you some of the guest rooms and you can take your pick?”

“Wow Tony, that was surprisingly tactful,” said Natasha.

“Pepper’s been training me up good. Tell her to give me a cookie for that when you see her again.”

* * *

The first of the guest suites was very modern and sleek; black, white and chrome. Steve and Bucky stepped in but something did not feel quite right. Steve could not place what it was as he poked around the open living room with Bucky at his side, while the others watched them. The two of them finally exchanged a look and Bucky shook his head.

“Not your style?” asked Tony. “No problem. Onto the next one.”

The second room was warmer, with brown leather chairs, and dark wooden shelves filled with books; the lights were orange and soft and it was very comfortable really. But still there was something off. Steve felt it, and he could see it in the line of tension in Bucky’s neck and shoulder. Steve could not place what it was and, seeing Bucky peering around looking confused, realized he could not either. They glanced back at Tony dejectedly who sighed and gestured them back to the elevator.

The third room was blue. _Navy_. That alone made Steve tense up. After a moment he realized there was a vague nautical theme, but he could not see it beyond the blue carpets, and blue chairs and walls, but there was no way he could stay here. He shook his head without stepping out of the elevator.

The fourth was vaguely industrial. Steve did not mind it, though there was still something uncomfortable about it that he could not place. However, Bucky saw the exposed metal beams above and immediately shook his head, turning back towards the elevator. Steve did not want to know what that meant to him, but his mind thought of a few grim scenarios anyway, his imagination almost worse than ever knowing the truth of it.

At the fifth room, Tony finally stopped them. There was nothing wrong with that room, except for the vague sense of unease that Steve and Bucky both felt and could not identify.

“I’ve got five more guest suites, but this might go easier if you gave me some direction. Anything you want, anything you dislike?”

Steve shrugged at him apologetically. There was nothing wrong with the rooms as far as he could tell, except for the navy one. He wondered if this was just something wrong with him. Maybe the wipe had made it so he would never feel comfortable again. He was almost ready to go back down to the parking lot and sleep between the cars in the dark shadows, when Clint finally spoke.

“Stark, do you got any rooms without carpet?”

“Sure, no problem,” replied Tony. “Interior decorating buffs, huh you guys?”

Steve blinked at him for a second before he and Bucky both glanced down at the floor beneath them. There it was. Plush carpeting under his socks, too soft and too much like the room in the Hydra compound. The room with the carpet. 

“Oh,” Steve whispered.

His heart started beating faster in his chest. He inched closer to Bucky, who pulled them both back to the elevator. He could not breathe. He could not close his eyes. The hard floor of the elevator was almost a comfort but now that he knew what was happening, where the unease had come from, he could not stop staring. The carpet in this room was cream, almost like the one in the room in the Hydra compound. Even now as he stared he could see dried drops of blood marring the floor, brown-red and sick. He swallowed and only turned his eyes away when Bucky put his hand on Steve’s face and pulled his head into his chest. He gasped into the cotton t-shirt.

“How’s hardwood sound to you?” Tony asked quickly. It almost shook Steve from his rising panic, just barely giving him a moment to breathe before he was back in the Hydra compound.

“Better,” said Bucky.

Steve nodded quietly against Bucky’s shoulder, glancing at Tony for just a moment before pushing himself back into the corner of the elevator and trying to steady his breathing. Even now he thought of the collar, of his arms trapped against the floor, immobile, of knives, of navy. Even now he knew that part of him would never leave that room. The dread that grew there would stay in his stomach forever.

Bucky took his hand. Steve stared down at where their hands met for a moment and Bucky gave him a soft squeeze. Bucky met his eye, gave Steve a small nod and pulled him out of the elevator and into the next room. Steve let out a breath he had not realized he had been holding and let himself be taken.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate this chapter, sorry (I'm also not fond of the chapter that comes after this on, but I'm trying to hammer it into submission). I'm excited about chapter 25 though. It's from Bucky's POV! Ain't that gonna be a kick?! :D
> 
> I'm Betsy and I need to get off [tumblr](http://batraquomancy.tumblr.com) and go to the darn gym.


	24. Chapter 24

The next guest suite, as promised, had hardwood floors. There were a few intricate, oriental rugs on the floor which Tony promised to have removed first thing in the morning, but they were not as uncomfortable as the carpeting from before. The unease in Steve’s chest slowly melted away, the tension in Bucky’s shoulders and neck faded. Steve could feel Bucky’s body relax against his. At the reminder of the room with the carpet, Bucky had grown impossibly more pale, and Steve’s heart ached at the sight of it. He hadn’t seen Bucky that pale since the Hydra base in Ita—

Steve winced at the memory, watching Bucky carefully. Their eyes met and Bucky frowned, reaching up and touching Steve’s face for a moment. “Sentinel?”

Steve tried to smile back, but it did not reach his eyes. Bucky held his hand, grounding Steve. They pressed close together as they followed the others around the guest suite. Tony was finally able to show them around now that they had found a place that was acceptable. It was just an apartment, really. There were three bedrooms, and a small living room that opened into a dining area and kitchen, and another room at the far end that had a television.

“There’s panic rooms in the kitchen pantry and hall closet,” Tony said.

“What’s a panic room?” Steve asked.

“Should the worst happen you just jump in, tell Jarvis to shut it, and you’re safe. Reenforced steel, enclosed environment; nothing gets in or out, and you have full access to Jarvis’s systems. Only whoever initiated the panic room protocol or myself can open it. Pepper too, but she’s so busy, we don’t bother her with the little stuff.”

“Little stuff like deactivating a panic room?” Sam asked.

“Exactly.”

Steve frowned. He did not know what a Jarvis was. He did not like the idea of having to use a panic room in the first place.

Steve and Bucky started poking around, separating themselves from the others as they talked quietly. Steve knew the others, especially Natasha, were watching the two of them, but it did not register that there was anything worth seeing. Steve merely followed Bucky patiently, absently as Bucky started examining things.

First they walked through the kitchen. Bucky opened and closed drawers at random, reaching in occasionally to rifle through before moving on. He examined the microwave and oven intently; took the clock off the wall and ran his fingers along the back, peering at it, pulling out the batteries and smelling them before putting them back in. To the side of the kitchen there was a small table in front of a massive wall of windows. It was night time and there were stars and Steve could not help but walk towards it as Bucky continued to move around the kitchen.

Steve smiled up at the sky. There were not that many stars out; the city was still ablaze with light, cars and buildings and movement that made the natural light seem dimmer, but Steve did not mind. It was beautiful. He was close enough to the window that he could feel the night air chill from outside seeping in near his skin. His breath fogged up the window a little bit. He brought his hand up to the glass and ran his finger through the fog, tracing idle patterns.

Bucky pulled him back from the window suddenly, putting himself between Steve and the glass. Steve frowned at him.

“What are you doing?” Steve asked.

“It isn’t safe,” Bucky said quietly. “A sniper could see you.”

“There’s no snipers, Buck. I was just—“

“What?”

“I was just looking at the stars.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed. He turned around back towards the window. His eyes darted between the buildings outside. Steve reached forward and touched his cheek, gently guiding his face upwards towards the sky.

Bucky let out a soft breath. “Oh.”

They both looked up at the stars quietly until Steve turned to him to examine his face. Bucky was too pale. He knew that deep in his bones. He ran his fingers along Bucky’s skin as Bucky stared up and out the window, almost oblivious to Steve.

Bucky finally turned away and their eyes met. Half imprint, half wrong memory, Steve’s core pooled with warmth and he gave Bucky a smile. Bucky huffed out a small breath of laughter and smiled softly back. He brought his hand up and ran a finger lightly down Steve’s nose. Steve could not look away from Bucky’s blue eyes. It was warm, it was good. Even the chill from the glass did not matter. He did not feel cold.

Bucky’s eyes flicked down to Steve’s mouth and Steve was about to lean in and press their lips together when he remembered. He pulled back just a little, Bucky’s hand falling from his face, and bit his lip. Bucky took his hand, and pulled Steve away from the window, both of them sparing one last glance out at the stars out the window before going back to examine the rest of the guest suite.

They passed by Sam and Natasha who gave Steve a curious look. Steve gave them a small, one armed shrug before following Bucky further on towards the bedrooms.

* * *

Every time Bucky was in a new room he would glance around until he spotted another door or window. He was running his fingers over the edges of shelves, picking up the knick-knacks around the room, spinning them in his hands, peering up at the ceilings. Bucky walked down the hall, opening doors to each of the bedrooms; the first two were silent, but there was the faintest squeak in the third. Bucky met Steve’s eye and nodded.

“This one,” he whispered softly. Steve frowned but said nothing; Bucky already slept so lightly, always jumping up to his feet in an instant when the Hydra techs came into the cell, surely the squeak would wake him up. Perhaps that was the point. Bucky stepped into the room and Steve followed behind. There was a bed, dresser, a private bathroom. It was nice.

Steve sat down in a chair by a dresser, tucking his feet up and watching Bucky move around the room. Steve studied him, the line of his shoulders, his intent gaze. He had no idea what Bucky was looking for, but it was clear Bucky knew what he was doing. The way he moved had a purpose that Steve could not fathom, that Steve maybe could have understood before the chair, but certainly not now. Still he was running his fingers over the shelves, and now the door frames. He paused at the window his metal hand hovering over the frame, gliding back and forth between the two corners. He did not move, staring intensely at the metal window frame.

“What’s wrong?” Steve finally asked.

“There’s wires in the window frame. Electricity.”

“What does that mean?”

Bucky frowned. He was about to open his mouth when a voice at the doorway interrupted them. “It means the windows are remotely controlled, that’s all.”

Tony stepped in, unfazed by Bucky’s glare as Bucky circled the room to move between him and Steve. 

“Jarvis, open the windows.”

“Of course, sir.” A voice with no source said.

In an instant, Steve felt Bucky pulling his arm, getting him out of the chair and into the corner. Steve almost did not realize he was pressed into the wall until it had already happened. They were both scanning the room but the only other person besides him and Bucky was Tony. Sam stood in the doorway, but it had not been him who had spoken. The voice was different, accented. Not the way that Bucky’s, Winter’s voice sometimes changed. It was entirely different. _English. British._ He closed his eyes against fragmented memories. There was mud, a fast car, a woman in a red dress. It hurt badly behind his closed eyelids and he pressed back against the wall, groaning.

“Steve? You okay?” Sam asked. Steve nodded.

“What was that?” Bucky snapped at Tony.

“Relax, it’s just Jarvis.”

“What’s Jarvis?” Steve asked from behind Bucky. He blinked, and all he could see was the tense line of Bucky’s shoulders in front of him.

“Who, not what. You met him before, Cap. He’s the program that runs the house.”

“Program?”

“Correct, sir,” said the voice. Steve jumped again still looking for the source. “’Just A Rather Very Intelligent System.’ _Jarvis_ for short. I monitor the building functions, security, and the Iron Man suits, along with whatever Mr. Stark requires.”

“Program?” Steve asked again. WS-Echo was a program, and that only happened because of the chair. He did not think Tony would do that, he _knew_ Tony would not do that. He knew the others would not take him and Bucky here if he was in danger but it did not make sense. He and Bucky were the only programs he knew. They were made into programs with the chair.

“Yes.”

“L-like us?”

It was the wrong thing to say. From behind Bucky he could see both Tony’s and Sam’s faces fall. A wave of guilt passed through him. _I’m sorry._ He shuddered, a wave of nausea passing through him, and leaned against Bucky for a moment until it passed.

“Steve, you know you’re not a program, right?” Sam said after a moment. “What they did—“

“No, I know. I mean—“ Steve struggled with the words. “He’s not— the chair— is he?”

“Are you asking if my house monitoring program is a person that’s been tortured into submission?” Tony finally asked. He had been staring at Steve, and for the first time Steve was staring back, not wavering from Tony’s eye. The risk that an imprinted order could be given was there, but this was more important. Something deep was telling him this was important.

“Has he?” Steve was almost surprised at how strong his voice sounded. He stared resolutely at Tony. At some point he had found Bucky’s hand and was gripping it tightly. Bucky gave his hand a small squeeze. An unfounded wave of anger was roiling inside of him and Bucky’s hand in his was the only thing keeping him from lashing out at Tony. Was Tony just another one of them?

“No. No. God, no. He doesn’t have a body to be tortured. Tell him, J.”

“It’s true, Captain Rogers” said the voice. “I’m merely an advanced computer program.”

“Computer? He’s not— he’s—“

“He’s not like us, Sentinel,” Bucky whispered, slowly relaxing. “He’s not real.”

Steve started to relax as well, still glancing up at the ceiling. He was almost envious. Jarvis probably was not nearly as confused, as in pain as Steve was.

“Glad to know you’re still in there,” Tony murmured.

“What does that mean?” asked Bucky.

“I mean that was the most ‘Captain America’ thing I’ve seen him do since we got here.” Steve stared at him, blinking. “You know, defending the defenseless. Fighting injustice. That’s Steve Rogers through and through. I was worried he was entirely gone the way you were following behind Bucky-Bear here like a kicked puppy since you got out of the car.”

“I’m not following him like a puppy.” Steve replied. Though now that he said it out loud, he realized that was exactly what he was doing. Tony raised his eyebrow and Steve could not come up with a decent followup.Steve stared at him for a little while longer before pressing his forehead into Bucky’s back and dropping the subject.

“Do you have any questions about the room?” Jarvis politely asked from above. Steve flinched a little at the voice once more, but said nothing, forced himself not to glance again at the ceiling for the source. Steve stood close to Bucky as he circled around the room asking questions of Jarvis and Tony, all security related. Sam stepped forward and touched Steve gently on the elbow. Steve reluctantly let himself be pulled back from Bucky, but always tracked him as he moved throughout the room.

“Are you doing okay?”

Steve nodded. “I’m alright.”

“Where do you think you’re going to sleep tonight?”

“Winter seems to like this room.”

“So you’re going into one of the others?”

Steve blinked at him. “I’m going to stay with Winter.” He shook his head. “With Bucky.”

“Will you be okay with that?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, what are you two? to each other?”

Steve blinked again. He turned and watched Bucky as he examined the closet with Tony and pointed out the various ‘hidden’ cameras, much to Tony’s delight. Tony almost screamed when Bucky showed him the metal arm, finally pulling it out from his pocket and pushing the sleeve of his sweatshirt up to his elbow. Bucky had grown easy with Tony and Jarvis after a few moments, movements relaxed in a way Steve had not seen before. Non-threatened. Bucky was almost smiling at Tony at some points in their conversation. Steve could not help but smile as he watched. 

“Steve?”

“I don’t know,” he finally replied. “I don’t remember right. But I can’t leave him.”

“Is that the imprint talking? Sentinel?”

“I think it’s from whoever I was before.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m not really sure about anything. But I can’t leave him.”

“Natasha’s not going to like that. Not going to like you sleeping together.”

“I know. She’ll live.”

“You’re getting punchy,” Sam said with a smile. “Maybe Tony was right about that old Steve Rogers showing up again.”

“I feel better when I’m with him.” Steve said. “I’ll figure the rest out eventually, I guess.”

Sam nodded. “She’s not gonna like that,” he said again.

“Yeah, I know. Tell her I’m sorry. I just— I can’t leave.”

“And you’re okay with that? Last time you were alone together you came out pretty upset.”

“That was my fault.”

“I bet you it wasn’t.”

“Sam—“ Steve sighed, watching Bucky. “It was my fault. I was just confused. I thought we—“ he cut himself off, biting his lip.

“Will you be okay here? We can find you another room. One of us can stay, maybe?”

“It’ll be fine. I’ll leave if it’s not.”

“Will you?”

“I think so.”

Sam sighed, wiping his face. “You need to let us know if you can’t, okay? Can you promise me that?”

“I promise.”

Sam nodded once more and walked out the door pulling an animated Tony after him. Steve and Bucky were alone in the room.

Bucky nodded towards the bathroom and Steve went in first. He went through the motions of washing his hands, his face. He hesitatingly opened a drawer and saw there were toothbrushes still in their packaging and a tube of toothpaste. He pulled out the toothpaste and one of the brushes and opened it. He stared at it in his hand for a long time. He knew what he was supposed to do. It was simple. He knew he had brushed his teeth a thousand times before. He tried to force himself to remember how, but the more he thought about it, the more his head started hurting. He should have just dropped it, gone without until he remembered but something stubborn inside of him refused. He had to do this. He had to brush his teeth. He had to remember.

His hand was shaking, clenched in the toothbrush and he could not tear his eyes away from it until a voice from the door way interrupted him.

“You don’t have to remember how tonight. It’s been a long day.”

Steve looked at Bucky in the doorframe and then back at the toothbrush. He could not put it down, his hand would not relax. He could not let it go until Bucky stepped towards him and put his hand on Steve’s, slowly pulling his fingers away from the brush and putting it on the counter.

Steve let Bucky guide him to the bed and lay down, careful of his bad shoulder. The two of them stared up at the ceiling in silence for a few moments before Bucky rolled over and looked at Steve, meeting his eye. A far away fear rose up in his stomach. Would Bucky order him to kill someone now? To kill Sam? Tony? It was an impossible possibility.

Steve would kiss Bucky while he delivered the killing blow.

He looked away. Bucky brought his metal hand up and brushed it ever so lightly over his face, his temple. He brought his hand down and hovered for a moment over his lips. All Steve wanted to do was go forward the mere centimeters and close the gap, feel Bucky, even just his fingers, against his lips.

“What’s wrong?” Bucky whispered.

“I’m tired,” Steve lied.

“Get some sleep. I’ll take first watch.”

“You don’t have to watch anything.”

“I have to watch you.”

“You have to sleep too.” Bucky frowned at him, like the suggestion was something ridiculous. “Please, let’s sleep. Let’s just sleep.”

After a moment Bucky gave him a small nod. Steve tentatively slid closer to him on the bed, reaching up and pushing Bucky’s head down onto the pillow next to him. Bucky’s hand moved over his face still, very gently touching the skin on his brow, his temple. He ran his hand through Steve’s hair, and a small sigh fell from Steve’s lips. It felt good. He closed his eyes and the navy was still there but it did not seem so oppressive. He curled even closer to Bucky, feeling the man’s breath on his skin. He fell asleep. He felt safe.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter, like the last one, is not exactly my favorite. I figured it out; this one, and a few more in the future are kind of filled with sort of mini plot points that I kinda want to get across, but I also have like a BIG PLOT DEVELOPMENT that is taking a lot longer to get to because of all these mini ones. It's chill. I'll deal. Steve's really touchy. That's weird, right? I'm not a hundred percent sure where that's coming from actually, but it feels right to write him like that.
> 
> Have a great weekend, friends. Next chapter up sometime mid-next week. IDK when... things are slowing down in terms of fic writing, I'm sorry to say. Ah well. It'll happen though, don't worry.
> 
> (BTW, I don't beta read at all, so if you guys see anything wrong spelling/grammar-wise feel free to let me know)
> 
> I'm Betsy and I'm the crone at the edge of the forest with nothing but my familiar and [tumblr](http://batraquomancy.tumblr.com)


	25. Interlude

Winter pulled his arm gently away from Sentinel’s grip on the bed. Even in his sleep Sentinel’s brow furrowed at the loss. He whimpered. Winter frowned at the noise, hating how weak it sounded. No, not weak; _scared._ Furthermore, something from far away, from before the chair, told him that Sentinel would not want anyone to know he made a sound like that, even in his sleep. It was not pride, but something else. Sentinel shuttered off any weaknesses from the outside world, usually without thinking, soldiering on.

Sentinel fisted the sheet beneath his hand tightly, his arm trembling. His eyes were darting around under his eyelids and his breathing was becoming heavy. He would wake up soon. The nightmares were terrible without the base programming. Winter hated to see Sentinel so scared.Winter could not help but run a cold hand along his temple, whispering softly in Russian, slowly easing Sentinel back into a more peaceful slumber. When his breathing steadied and grew even once more, Winter pulled away, sparing one last look over his shoulder at Sentinel.

 _Steve._ His name was Steve. Winter knew that but could not help but call him Sentinel in his mind. ‘Sentinel’ did not hurt the same way ‘Steve’ did. That was a strong memory and Winter was terrified of letting it take hold. He knew it would hurt and he was tired in a way that sleep could not cure. He avoided ‘Steve’ and let himself fall into place with Sentinel. It was much easier.

There was another name that Winter could not remember too. Like Steve. But not. It was trapped deep within his marrow.

Sentinel was important. More than an ally. Sam Wilson was probably the closest thing he had to an ally, though his foundation was not solid. Winter would have to earn his trust, but he imagined it would not be too difficult. He could see in Wilson’s eye that he wanted Winter to be the man Sentinel thought he was. Tony Stark was neutral. Not threatening at all, though he felt as though there was something hidden about him that might crop up later. The name Tony Stark was intimately familiar; an enemy of Hydra, an antagonist of SHIELD, but Winter did not know what made him thus.

Clint Barton and Nathasha Romanoff were threats. That was much painfully clear. Romanoff more than Barton, but Barton could hold his own longer than most men against Winter. Sentinel trusted them though, so Winter would have to as well.

* * *

He thought of WS-Delta, designation Brooklyn. Sentinel reminded Winter of Brooklyn for some strange reason. It did not make sense, they were very different. Brooklyn had been small, weak, almost a foot shorter than Sentinel. Pale and sickly.

Winter remembered they let him and Brooklyn get to know each other before they put Brooklyn in the chair. They told Winter to protect Brooklyn. The handlers laughed for a reason Winter never had been able to fathom. Following the command was surprisingly easy. There were many things wrong with Brooklyn, who insisted that was not his name — _“Arthur. My name is Arthur. Brooklyn is a city. You have to have a name too; Winter isn’t a name.”_ — but taking care of his problems came as second nature. An extra blanket when it was cold, medicine when he coughed.

His eyes had been very blue; almost as blue as Sentinel’s, he thought wryly. But there had been something too sharp about them, about Brooklyn. He was quick to anger, which felt familiar, but lacked kindness, warmth. Winter did not know why he thought Brooklyn should be, well, _nicer_ , quicker to laugh, to smile, but he did. The name ‘Brooklyn’ meant something to him too, but he could not say what.

The handlers laughed. It had happened right when he had transferred from the KGB to Hydra. At least he thought that’s when it had happened. Hydra laughed at him as he shuffled Brooklyn around, protected him from the leering agents. Winter scoffed at the memory. The Russians were better.

He had watched as the small man screamed on the chair, blue eyes slowly glassing over, turning grey as he spasmed and foamed at the mouth, seeing nothing. It was not that the wipe broke Brooklyn, but rather the pain. He had been too small, too weak. His body did not stop shaking after the chair.

Pierce programmed him _wrong_ then. Winter had known Brooklyn did not want to live his life the way Pierce used him, but the programming, coupled with the pain left him helpless to resist, shaking, open-mouthed, legs spread. Shaking, always shaking.

Winter had lied to Tony Stark about Brooklyn. He had watched Bravo and Charlie die; that had been true, but he had been the one to kill Brooklyn. He did this because he knew Brooklyn did not want to be used in the perverse way that Pierce had been using him. He knew Brooklyn did not want to have Winter touch him that way, every night, in the room with the carpet. Or another room with carpet, while Pierce grew older, sitting on a couch watching, imprinted orders abused for his twisted pleasure.

When Sentinel kissed him in the hospital, Winter had felt real fear for the first time in a very long time. It was a cold, oppressive tendril in his stomach. _Not him too,_ it screamed inside of him. _God, not him._ He had had to kill Brooklyn to set him free, but he did not think he could bring himself to kill this man who knew his name from before the chair.

The idea of any harm coming to Sentinel made his stomach churn, made him see red. He had not known he could feel something so visceral until he met Sentinel. Met Sentinel _again._ The knowledge that they had known each other before everything was both a blessing and a curse. Sentinel was a key that could unlock the quashed down parts of his memory, the parts he had buried, the parts that burned behind his eyes when he thought about them too long.

Winter did not believe that Sentinel had received any new programming while he was away. He desperately hoped not. Winter would drag him back to the chair and wipe him himself if he had to, if only to save Sentinel from doing something he did not really want to do. But where did that leave them? Sentinel was confused. The imprint was leaving him confused.

When Sentinel kissed him, Winter had felt real fear.

But he had felt something warm inside of him; the chapped lips against his felt like something from before the chair, like a home he did not know. 

The imprint was leaving Winter confused as well. That was all. That was what it must be.

* * *

He walked silently to the bathroom, turning on the light only after the door was closed so he would not disturb Sentinel. He glanced at himself in the mirror and almost flinched. He did not flinch; they had trained that out of him a long time ago. His eyes were too blue, almost as blue as Sentinel’s. He stared into the mirror for a moment trying to blink away the color before turning away and stepping further into the bathroom.

Tony Stark’s shower was impressive. Winter did not feel the need to marvel at it though. He stripped out of his clothes easily, putting the knife he had pocketed from the kitchen on top of the folded pile, and stepped in, careful of the bandages on his torso. The other wounds he had were almost healed by now. The water was instantly warm, and Winter allowed himself a small sigh as his muscles relaxed in the steam and heat. He quickly shampooed his hair and ran soap over his body before rinsing off, turning off the water and toweling off. He took a fresh towel and spent a long time making sure all the water was out of his metal arm, polishing away some of the grime that had not come off from the spray, before stepping out of the shower.

He got dressed again, mechanically, pulling on the jeans and soft t-shirt once more, careful of his injuries. He found a comb and ran it quickly through his hair. He shaved his face with the safety razor in the drawer and when he looked at his reflection again the thought that maybe this time he almost looked human. As human as an asset could look at any rate.

He took the knife in his metal hand and pressed the sharp tip into the crook of his elbow, ready to run it down his forearm along his vein.

He froze, metal hand steady, flesh hand shaking over the sink. His heart was pounding in his chest as he stared at the knife. He was ready to cut his arm open, to bleed out onto Tony Stark’s nice white tiles.

“Sergeant Barnes,” the voice from the ceiling said softly. Jarvis. The program that ran the house.

“Jarvis,” Winter responded.

“If you proceed with what you’re doing I will have to inform the others.”

“Are you fast enough?”

“Please stop.”

“We have a name for people like you; Big Brother,” tried to joke.

Winter knew all about extreme surveillance. He had been born under it, in a chair, screaming in pain, losing something desperately important that he could not remember anymore. Still, he had not gotten such an impression from Tony Stark. The man’s presence oozed with the concepts of anarchy, mixed with freedom of information. He did not seem the type to watch every person in his house obsessively.

“Usually I’m not so invasive, but Mr. Stark has altered my protocols regarding you and Captain Rogers. He worries, and rightly so obviously.”

Winter nodded to himself, question answered.After a moment, staring at the knife against his skin he replied, “I’m following protocol too.”

“To kill yourself?”

“Protocol 78-341: ‘Should the Asset not be able to return to a receiving base, the Asset must self-destruct.’”

“You _are_ able to return to a receiving base. You are not being held prisoner.”

Winter paused, blinking down at his arm. The computer was spinning logic into his coding. He shook his head, “If that were true I would not be doing this.” He could not leave to a receiving base, Sentinel was still here and probably would not want to go.

“Perhaps your protocols are not clear.”

He snorted; “I’ve been tortured and brainwashed for seventy years, there is very little that is clear.”

“What is clear?”

Winter thought about it. “Sentinel. He is clear. He is good.” _He will make a good asset._

“You are referring to Captain Rogers?”

“Yes.”

“I imagine he would be upset if you continued with what you’re doing.”

“I imagine so.” He thought of Sentinel finding him after the deed then. Winter did not like that idea at all. His metal hand faltered, jerking above his skin before he concentrated and pressed it back against his arm.

“Forgive me for the intrusion, but I was analyzing the files procured by Agent Barton and protocol 78-341 in your programming is… _curious_.”

“Curious?” _Curiouser and curiouser,_ something said in his mind. A young girl with dark hair like him, sitting on a bed while they read together; she was sounding out the words slowly, pressed against his side. He shook away the foundation-less memory. 

“It is not worded how you said.”

“And how is it worded?”

“It reads, ‘Should the Asset not be able to return to a receiving base, Asset wipe sub-programming will initiate subroutine 34i, codified; duty-bound.’”

“What is that? What is subroutine 34i?” Winter simultaneously knew it in his bones and had no recollection of what it meant. It was deep within him. The same way he knew his liver had to flush toxins from his body, but it was not as if he could control how it happened.

“It is a feeling, manipulated so you believe you’re required to act on it as if it were an order of the same magnitude as one from one you have imprinted on.”

“Clarify?”

“The wipe sub-programming appears to be a set of codes and actions deeply embedded in the mind during the ‘wipe’ event. They are base. They are essentially manufactured ‘feelings,’ though that is not quite the correct term. Subroutine 34i is one of those feelings.”

“What kind of feeling is it?”

“Suicidal ideation.”

Winter blinked, meeting his eye in the mirror. After a brief moment, the mirror shifted as Jarvis projected the code in front of him. Winter understood enough about coding to get the gist of it. Jarvis highlighted the subroutine in question. Winter stared at it. It was numbers and symbols, but it felt as though he knew it intimately. He did, actually. It had been burned into his brain from the chair.

The subroutine was telling him to kill himself. The chair made him do this.

“Every wipe is the same this way? The wipes have programming?”

_You were right. They burn the fight out of you._

“Yes.”

Winter had stopped breathing, slowly put the knife down on the counter and walked back into the bedroom. Sentinel was going to kill himself. He half expected the bed to be covered in blood, Sentinel to be drawing his last breath, smiling like he always did when he met Winter’s eye.

He stood at the edge of the bed. In his sleep Sentinel had managed to grab Winter’s pillow and wrapped his arms around it very tightly, curling into a ball, acting smaller than he had any right to. Winter smiled fondly when he saw Sentinel’s ribs rise and fall with his steady breath.

“Jarvis,” Winter murmured.

“Yes, Sergeant Barnes,” the computer replied softly.

“You will tell the others? That Sentinel’s mind— that he might—“

“The others will be informed in their daily reports upon waking. I have already altered my programming to maintain a more consistent surveillance on both of you, should either of you be prevailed to act upon Subroutine 34i.”

“He deserves better.”

“As do you, Sergeant Barnes.”

Winter did not know how to respond to that. Sentinel’s breathing was a little louder than when he first left the room, just shy of a snore. Winter had a flash of panic that he was not getting enough oxygen because Sentinel had asthma.

But Sentinel did not have asthma. The memory stung in his mind as he watched Sentinel sleep.

Very carefully he crawled back onto the bed, reaching forward to brush a piece of hair that had fallen in front of Sentinel’s face. He felt warm, lying here next to Sentinel.

He frowned when Sentinel made another small noise in his sleep as another nightmare started to take hold. Winter slid forward and pulled away the pillow Sentinel was clinging to, settling into the empty space. Sentinel immediately reached out and pulled himself into Winter’s chest, never waking. Winter would have laughed were he not worried it would wake the other man up.

He loved the press of Sentinel against him. Something deep within him could not help but unfurl, to open up and leave him feeling whole. He was confused. He closed his eyes and fell asleep with Sentinel’s scent in his lungs.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone: More angst, more Bucky!  
> Me: Okay. *writes one (and possibly only) Bucky POV chapter*  
> Everyone: *bruce banner voice* Oh no, this is much worse.
> 
> Man Hydra's really fucking bad, aren't they? But you know who's great? Jarvis. Jarvis is fantastic, and super fun to write. Bucky's POV is also super fun to write (though I could never do it on the reg, that stuff's tough). And god I love Steve. He didn't even do anything except sleep and be cute, and I'm so fucking in love with him I cannot even breathe.
> 
> I'm Betsy and I'm probably putting too many personal posts on [tumblr](http://batraquomancy.tumblr.com) to be putting a link up after every chapter, but what are you gonna do! :D :P
> 
> Writing is slowing down a little, new chapter probably won't be up until the end of the week/weekend. Apologies. Mea culpa. Life is lame.


	26. Chapter 26

When Steve woke up, Bucky was still lying on the bed next to him, though cleaner and with a shaved face. Steve wondered at it for a moment but did not mind the change. He smiled and slid closer to him on the bed, feeling the warmth coming off of his skin, the barest hint of cinnamon surrounding him.

There had been nightmares the night before. He knew that. He knew they had been terrible, but thinking back on them now he could not remember them. Flashes of horror, of fear, dissipating away for reasons unknown. He was so grateful that he had slept through them. An almost decent night’s sleep felt amazing.

He wanted to kiss Bucky awake. He felt like that was something he should do, even though it was wrong. With a sigh, Steve slid just an inch or slow closer, watching Bucky’s face as he slept. 

* * *

_“Hey Stevie,” Bucky’s voice murmured above him. The small bed in the medical tent was not big enough for the two of them, and he had fallen asleep sitting on the floor, resting his head on the mattress. A limp hand flopped gracelessly onto his head, fingers playing with his hair._

_“Buck? Buck, hey!” Steve sat up, and cupped Bucky’s face. Bucky’s head lolled on his shoulders and he gave Steve a soft smile. “Finally decided to wake up. Took your sweet time.”_

_“Gunshot wounds tend to take it outta ya.”_

_“So you remember what happened? Morita said you—“_

_“Are you okay?”_

_“What?”_

_“Are you—“_

_“Jesus Buck, you can’t just— you were shot— and you’re asking if—“_

_Bucky’s hand flopped uselessly against Steve’s arm, his eyes started closing once more, he winced and started coughing and Steve almost knocked over the pitcher of water trying to poor a glass fast enough for him._

_“Are you okay?” Bucky asked again. His voice was too soft. Steve stared at him as he slowly succumbed to sleep._

_“Yeah,” he said after a while. “Yeah, Buck. I’m fine.”_

_“Good. Tha’s good, Stevie.”_

_His breath rose and sank in his chest, and all Steve wanted to do was kiss him, but the nurses were coming in and out of the medical tent, and that was a court-martial if they were caught. Steve sat back down on the floor and rested his head on the mattress, watching Bucky fall back asleep, sending a small prayer of thanks up to whoever was listening that he had not lost him._

* * *

After breakfast — a small affair for Steve, who could only keep down some fruit without feeling sick again — everyone went to the medical bay of Stark Tower. Bucky and Steve ended up sitting on the bed together in one of the rooms with the others waiting for the doctor to show up. Tony handed them a tablet.

“Just play around; it’s a new prototype. Has all the best games on it. ”

Steve took it hesitantly and he and Bucky started poking at it. Bucky’s metal arm did not work on the touch screen and Steve was still wearing the sling. Bucky held the tablet with his metal hand and together he and Steve both used their respective right hands to move through the tablet and find a game.

“Maybe that one?”

“Yeah.”

They started working through the game, moving their little player together through the maze. The first few steps were rocky but they figured out the mechanics quickly; Steve would turn the player and Bucky would press the attack, or Bucky would make them jump over a gap and Steve would grab onto the rope. It was fun. They both were smiling as they worked through each of the levels.

“Jarvis, put the StarkTab display up on the wall for me please?” Tony’s voice said. Steve barely heard it.

They continued playing without realizing they had an audience. Steve and Bucky were both engrossed in the game, moving quickly through the levels. Even their breathing was in sync. Pressed flush side by side they were moving as one through the game.

“Sir, I am worried about the internal temperature of the prototype. It is rising to untested levels.”

“Jarvis, pause the game.”

The game stopped. Steve and Bucky both blinked at the tablet for a moment. Steve tapped at the screen experimentally but nothing happened. They finally looked up and saw the others staring at them.

“That was weird,” Clint finally said.

“What was?” Steve asked.

“Steve,” Tony sighed. “I’m a genius, and I have a hard enough time playing that game with both hands, but you two were doing it together, and going so fast the tablet was going to overheat.”

“What?” Steve touched the back of the tablet and quickly pulled his hand back. Tony was right, it was painfully hot. “We— we weren’t going that fast, were we?”

“Yeah, kinda.”

“Is that just the imprint?” Sam asked. “They’re just a little more in sync?”

“Or something else,” Tony murmured. “You two look here.” He stepped towards the bed and held out a pen moving it back and forth in front of Steve and Bucky’s faces. Steve tracked it with his eyes. “Fuck, that’s creepy.”

“What is?” Steve asked.

“Jarvis, take a look at the code for the wipe programming would you? Write up a report. Or, you know, another report. Accumulate data in a fun powerpoint presentation ready to go at a moment’s notice; you know the drill.”

“I will update my current report with these most recent findings.”

“What’s going on?”

“You two are just creeping me out, don’t worry about it.”

Steve did not get to ask anything else because the doctor walked in. She started asking Bucky about his injuries and healing as well as taking a look at Steve’s shoulder. Like the hospital there was nothing they could really do without taking off the collar first. An x-ray, maybe, but the collar would definitely interfere, though not nearly as badly as it would on an MRI — out of the question until the collar was off due to the metal.

“Right,” Tony clapped his hand which caused Steve to flinch. Bucky clicked his tongue at him softly, correcting. Steve almost flinched again, chastised. “Get the collar off. That’s my job. Follow me.”

* * *

Tony’s lab was a flurry of activity. All around them there was the constant motion of his small robots, and monitors running numbers that Steve could not even begin to understand. It made Steve dizzy standing there watching everything happen, it was impossible to focus. He opted sit on a chair as Bucky circled around the room, examining the machinery. He watched Bucky move around the room, and Sam leaned against the table next to him.

“What’s he doing?” Sam asked

“Looking,” Steve replied.

“Do you know what he’s looking for?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Do you want to look with him?”

Steve looked up at Sam at the odd question. “Should I?”

“I’m asking you. You were following him around yesterday. Don’t want to today?”

“No. There’s too much here.”

“Do you want to do this somewhere else? Somewhere a little less busy?”

“No, I’m okay,” he said. It was only partially true. Tony’s lab was distracting. There was so much happening, and Steve was having trouble focusing. It left him feeling even more unmoored than usual. He liked the lab. It was interesting, but he also wanted everything to just pause. He blinked away the lights and movement and looked at hte floor.

Sam nodded and they watched in silence as Bucky, and surprisingly Clint, had a small stare-down with one of the robots that had been zipping around the room. Steve and Sam snorted when the robot beeped at the two men and both Clint and Bucky jumped at the sound.

“So, let’s take a look at this collar,” Tony said, snapping on a pair of hot pink exam gloves and pulling Steve away from watching Bucky. Steve stared at the gloves, the color was just odd enough that he could not equate with the Hydra technicians. It would still feel the same, but Steve thought if he could keep the pink gloves in his line of sight he could manage it. “Let’s take a looksie.”

Steve unzipped his sweatshirt, shrugging it off. Tony’s eyes widened minutely now that the collar was fully exposed but he said nothing. He was asking nothing. Steve could see how badly he wanted to just start asking him questions and never stop, but he restrained himself. Steve barely remembered the man, but knew that that was completely out of character.

“Right, Jarvis, start a scan, please.”

After a moment, a picture popped up in front of them, showing the collar around Steve’s neck. Tony poked and prodded at it with his fingers and with the tools. Steve was left to his thoughts, shifting and ephemeral though they were. He watched the schematic spin above the work-table. Tony kept glancing at it, and murmuring to the others and Jarvis.

“Wait,” Bucky said, shaking Steve from his thoughts. He stepped forward and Steve could feel, more than see him leaning over where Tony was working on the collar, peering intently at it.

“What?” Tony asked.

“That’s different than my collar.”

“How?”

“Mine does not have those pieces on the inside.”

“And we can’t even get a good look at those pieces on the inside without cracking it open.” Tony sighed and wiped his face. “Alright, _mon capitaine_ , mosey over to that bench there; face first, I think I’m going to open this from the back.”

Steve nodded and moved to a small, armless chair and sat down, chest pressing against the back of it. It was a little awkward with his shoulder in the sling, but he managed to settle in. This was fine. Different enough from everything that had happened with the technicians and the chairs. He still felt nervous though, something was creeping at his thoughts that he could not name.

He felt something hot as Tony started to work on the back of the collar. He winced, but held still as he heard a screwdriver and other tools whirring behind him. His vision was blurring in front of him. It felt like something was burning deep in his spine. He tightened his grip on the back of the chair.

“Steve, you need to hold still, big guy.”

“Something’s wrong,” Sam murmured.

“Steve, you’re shaking buddy. Do you need me to stop?”

“N-no,” he lied again.

It was just busy here, he was just unmoored. He focused on the floor in front of him once again, blinking away stinging wetness from his eyes. He could not stop trembling. There was a breath of cold air on his neck when the collar finally unhinged. He was shaking so hard he could barely feel it.

“What is that?”

“They’re wires. Jarvis, take a look at this.”

“I’m scanning it now sir, but without a proper x-ray I cannot tell how deeply they are embedded into Captain Roger’s neck.”

“I’m sorry, embedded in his neck?” Sam asked, worried. Steve had not heard him sound like that and it left him unsettled. Steve tried to turn around and look for the others, but he felt a pull on his neck that sent a wave of pain and nausea through him. A whimper tore from his lips. He tried to pull away from the heat, from the pain, but he was trapped in the chair.

_“The collar doesn’t come off, Cap.”_

“The collar doesn’t come off, Cap,” Steve whispered. Pain flashed at his neck, and behind his eyes.

“Steve, what was that?” Sam asked.

“Steve, Steve, you need to not move,” Tony said. “I need some extra hands here.”

There were bodies all around him, and Steve bit back a scream. Clint was holding his shoulders and Sam was keeping his head still. Now that they were there he could feel himself trembling even more violently. He spasmed every time Tony touched the collar or wires. He pressed his face into Sam’s chest to muffle any sounds he made, flinching when he closed his eyes long enough to be reminded of the blindfold. This was so much worse than that had been.

“Natalie, hold this still.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m either gonna pull it out or cut it out.”

“Tony—“

“Just hold that piece still.”

“Tony wait—“

“Don’t,” Steve whimpered. It was hurting so badly.

He felt a great pressure at the base of his skull, and he screamed into Sam’s chest then. He could hear him and Clint struggling from far away to keep him still. It felt like someone was pouring hot oil into his bones, down his spine. He knew Tony was pulling at the wires in his neck, and he knew right then he was going to die. There was nothing but hot, wrong pain like he had never felt before. He could not stop shaking, he was holding back vomit.

“Tony, stop! You’re hurting him!”

“Put it back! Stop!”

“Hold him still!”

Amidst everything, he felt something touch his hand, cool and metal. After a moment he forced himself to let go of the back of the chair and grab on to the metal hand. He held it painfully tight. It was all he could do to not let go.

Something snapped. Steve saw white behind his eyelids. Someone was screaming in pain. He lost time. He blacked out.

* * *

Sentinel opened his eyes to Tony Stark’s bright, busy lab after a long while, minutes or hours or years he could not be sure, the pain in his skull burning along with the lights of the computers. The back of his neck was hurting too. He was curled around himself, holding the broken pieces of the collar together against his skin. He was desperately trying not to shake where he sat; each movement jostled the collar sent a jolt of pain through his spine.

He was in the corner of the room, under a lab table, curled in a tight ball, without ever knowing how he had gotten there. There was a flash of pain, screaming, his body spasming and a desperation to get away and his body must have brought him here.

Steve, Sentinel, Steve stared at him as he slowly parsed through the memories. It was only the other day. The room with the chair, the man in the shadows.

_The collar doesn’t come off, Cap._

“The collar doesn’t come off, Cap,” he whispered.

“What?” Sam asked from outside the desk. He was sitting close to Steve, but the others were hanging back. “Talk to me, Steve.”

“The collar doesn’t come off, Cap. The collar doesn’t come off, Cap. The collar doesn’t—“

“You need to calm down, big guy.”

He stared ahead of him wide-eyed, unseeing as the events played back in his head. It was a terrible loop. He was fighting Bucky, he was terrified, he was hurt. Blood on his arm, bruises on his skin, a knife at his neck under the collar. His head cracking on the cement, his body being dragged to the chair.

“Bucky, please. It’s me—“ he heard someone whisper far away. “You know me. Please, please, please, please—“

“Steve—“

“It hurts most the first time, but you get used to it.” Steve whispered. “You are strong though. You’ll make a good asset. I’ll show you.”

“Steve? What—“

“It hurts most the first time, it hurts most the first time—“

He heard clatters around him, shouting, doors opening. Feet running away.

“Steve,” Sam said quietly. “Listen to me; you’re okay.”

“No, no, no, no, no—“ _Bucky, please!_

Sam was kneeling in front of him, and Steve finally pulled himself back from the chair, the bank vault, the man in the shadows, Bucky. His face was wet, his heart pounding, his head throbbing. He was clinging to the collar on his neck. Sam reached towards him, and Steve let out a pained whimper, scrambling further back into the corner, before realizing it was Sam, _it’s just Sam._ He was staring up at the others who were gathered around him, all maintaining a safe distance except for Winter.

_Bucky_ , except for Bucky.

“Steve, can you hear me?” Sam asked softly. Steve nodded. “Tell us what’s going on.”

Steve looked around the room. “Where’s Winter?” he blinked, wincing. “Bucky. Where’s Bucky?”

“He freaked out and left. Natasha’s with him.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry—“

“It’s okay, you did nothing wrong. You’re okay.”

“What happened?”

“You remember Tony was working on taking off the collar?” Steve gave a small nod. He could not move his head too much for fear of jostling the collar. “There were some wires. The collar has some wires embedded in your neck. We can’t take it off right now.”

Steve nodded again. “The collar doesn’t come off. That’s what Rumlow said.”

“We can take the collar off,” Tony said. “We may need to sedate you, and we’re going to work with the scans Jarvis was able to run before you freaked out.”

Steve stared at them for a moment from his place in the corner. They all looked so worried. He was still trembling a little as he clung to the collar, holding it together. He realized his shoulder was throbbing, tangled in the sling as he pressed the collar together.

“You think you can come back up to the chair, big guy? We can put the collar back together temporarily?”

Steve steadied his breath and finally pushed himself up to his feet and moved back to the chair. Clint took the pieces of the collar and held them together so Steve could put his hands down, and Tony started soldering it back in place. When he finished, Steve got out of the chair.

“Where is Bucky?”

“He was pretty upset, Steve. You might want—“

“Where is he?”

Tony sighed. “Jarvis?”

“Sergeant Barnes is currently in the guest suites.”

Steve walked to the elevators on shaky legs, knowing Sam was following him but ignoring the other man.The elevator was not fast enough, his fingers tapped against his legs as he was waiting. Bucky was upset, why was he upset? His neck was burning, the back of his skull was throbbing but it did not matter as he made his way through the apartment.

“Bucky?”

“We’re in here,” Natasha called.

Steve followed the sound of the voice and found himself in the bedroom once more. Bucky and Natasha were sitting on the bed. Bucky did not look at him when Steve stepped in the room. He stumbled a little and caught himself on the dresser, legs shaky, body hurting.

“Bucky? Are you alright?”

He looked at Steve then, face incredulous, almost angry, eyes wet.

“You’re asking if I’m alright? I killed you, Sentinel.”

“What?”

“I killed you! I put you in the chair! That’s what you were remembering!”

“Are you alright?” Steve asked again.

“Steve, you need to lie down,” Sam said behind him.

“Bucky?”

Bucky stood up, and walked over to Steve at the dresser. With cautious, careful hands, he moved Steve’s arm over his shoulder and brought him over to the bed. He gingerly helped him lay down on the bed. Steve winced when his neck was jostled about and Bucky let out a small apologetic hiss. He sat down next to the bed and put his head on the mattress, watching Steve from the floor.

“Are you okay, Winter?”

Bucky did not reply for a long time. They stared at each other. Steve wanted to wipe away the hurt from Bucky’s face, the anguish. “Yeah, Sentinel,” he said after a while. “I’m okay.”

“That’s good.”

He reached for Winter’s hand and did not let it go, the cool metal on his skin slowly bringing him back to equilibrium. It was all he could do to not let go. He fell asleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a real monster to write. I'm also obsessed with line-breaks. I'm a sham!
> 
> I'm Betsy. I'm super tired and here's my [tumblr](http://batraquomancy.tumblr.com), you can yell at me there.
> 
> Looks like chapters are going to be a once a week thing until further notice (or the story finishes). Probably should've started with that and paced myself better because I'm running myself ragged, but what can you do. Lots of love to you all, thank you for reading and commenting and just being great old sports about all this. I'm truly blessed. *hugs*


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (HEADS UP: This starts off with a tiny bit of gore at the beginning in the form of a nightmare. Skip the initial italics text to avoid it).

_Steve was hungry._

_“You never stop eating these days, Steve. What’s that, four ration packs?”_

_“My metabolism is all screwy from the serum. I’m always hungry.”_

_“That sounded like a threat,” Bucky said with a laugh. “You might eat us too.”_

_Bucky, still laughing pulled out his knife, and started slicing into his stomach. Steve tried to reach out and stop him, but his hands were trapped behind him, he was on his knees. Bucky was standing over him naked, carving into his flesh._

_“Stop! What are you doing?”_

_“It’s a treat.”_

_“Bucky no! Please!”_

_Bucky was sitting over him, Steve lying down on his back, trembling as he looked up._

_“Stop it! Please!”_

_“Open your mouth, pretty boy.” Steve’s jaw locked. “Open your mouth, or I’ll open it for you.”_

_He saw Bucky peel away the skin from his abdomen, red and slippery and gold and dripping. Steve was hungry._

_He opened his mouth as Bucky brought the strip of skin closer to him. He chewed, he moaned, he rolled Bucky over onto his back and latched his lips onto the wound on his stomach, sucking up the blood and—_

* * *

Steve jerked up with a gasp, face wet, breath hot and heavy in his chest. Bucky’s metal hand touched his face and he flinched before turning and pressing his face into the other man’s chest with a sob.

“Shh. A bad dream, Sentinel. Go back to sleep.”

Steve followed the order, clinging tightly to Bucky, trying to ignore the hollow pit in his stomach, the way he thought he could still taste Bucky’s blood on his tongue.

 

When Steve woke up again, head hurting behind his eyes, Sam and Natasha walked him and Bucky to a communal dining area, with an array of various take out boxes. Steve and Bucky sat down next to each other at the table. Bucky started loading Steve’s plate with something from every box. Steve pocked at it with his fork, but did not eat, could not eat. His stomach rumbled inside of him, but even the smell was making him feel like vomiting. Steve was quiet as everyone talked around him.

“I’ve already sent Happy to pick up Bruciepoo,” Tony said easily. Steve frowned. He did not know Bruciepoo, he was not sure he wanted to know someone named ‘Bruciepoo.’ “Should be here either tonight or early tomorrow.”

“I thought Banner was on a retreat. Like in Mongolia.”

“Myanmar,” Tony replied easily. “Tech-less retreat too, on a mountain of all things. Didn’t even bring his phone. Could’ve had him here way sooner if he just acted like a normal person.”

“You mean like someone who can just pick up a person at a remote location in Myanmar?” Sam asked.

“Exactly.” The others laughed and Steve smiled with them. This was alright. This was comfortable.

“Anyway, he’s better with human and physio crap, should be a big help when it comes to eventually getting the collar off.” Steve did not keep smiling at the mention of the collar coming off, but stayed quiet.

“What I really want to do is see the wiping chair.” Steve froze then, staring up at the others before looking down at his plate. Bucky’s hand found it’s way to his leg under the table, and Steve reached over to hold on. “There’s only so much info that you got from their computers. Looking at the physical thing would be really great. For research purposes.”

“What’s left of SHIELD grabbed the one that was where Steve was being held,” Clint said. “I could give Hill a call, see if they can ship it over.”

“Ooh, do it!” Tony said. “That’d be super. Bruciepoo would want to see it too.”

“If he doesn’t Hulk out at you for taking him away from his retreat.”

“Have I showed you the new Hulkbuster suit? It’s neato, I love it!”

“That’s a hell of a name.”

“Might need it if Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum over there have a freak out.”

“Stark, be nice.” Natasha said

“Yeah, Natasha’s not above telling Pepper on you.”

“Damn straight.”

“I’m just saying, you said Bucky-bear is also a super soldier. If either of them are suddenly not on our side for whatever reason, bringing them down might be a bit of a challenge.”

“Maybe we should get in touch with Asgard? Thor’s a match for them in terms of manpower.”

“And he’s funnier than Stark.”

“Hey now,” Stark said, pointing at Clint with a fork. “Them’s fighting words, Barton.”

Steve tried to listen, but he could practically see the conversation going over his head. He knew what the words were, he knew what they meant, but it was hard to translate into something logical in his mind. He was tired just trying to follow along. And his stomach hurt. He was so hungry, but the thought of eating was getting overwhelming. He stared at his food for a moment before pushing the plate away from him.

“Eat, Sentinel,” Bucky whispered. “Stop listening. You’re not here to listen.”

“I can’t, my stomach…”

“You have to. They brought you food, you have to eat it.”

“They’ll understand, Bucky.”

“You have not eaten enough. You are starving.”

“What are you two whispering about?” Natasha asked across the table with a small, enigmatic smile. Steve and Bucky both froze, feeling all eyes on them. “It’s alright. You’re allowed to talk.”

“We’re fine,” Steve said. “I just—“

“It’s fine,” Bucky said quickly. “We are fine.”

“What is it, Steve?” asked Sam.

“I can’t eat–“ he started. Bucky tried to stop him with a hand on his arm, but Steve kept going. “It’ll just make me sick again. But it’s fine. I’m fine.”

Bucky shushed him, but it was too late. Steve glanced over at him to see his eyes darting frantically between the others at the table.

“Have you been eating at all?” Sam asked.

“Just a little. I had fruit at breakfast.”

“When was the last time you had a full meal?”

Steve stared at him for a moment. He could not remember. The protein shakes that the Hydra technicians might have counted but he was not sure. He supposed that was the last time he had enough food and that had been days ago. The IV at the hospital was giving him nutrients, but not really food.

“Steve?”

“I don’t know.”

“He’s fine. It’s the solid food,” Bucky said desperately. “We had protein shakes. He is fine. I promise. We’re functional. We’re fine.”

“Are you having trouble eating solid food too, Barnes?” Natasha asked slowly.

“I am functional.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Please, we are fine.”

Tony was already behind the counter in the communal kitchen pulling out supplies. “I got you kids, don’t worry. I know all about shakes. What do you want? We’ve got fruity, we’ve got healthy, we’ve got dessert-y.” Steve and Bucky turned to stare at him. “What?”

“Protein-y.” Bucky said at last, looking confused.

“I’ll add some of the powder, don’t trip.”

They sat quietly at the table. Steve flinched when the blender turned out behind him. Bucky sighed and clicked his tongue. Steve turned and stared at him. He knew Bucky was right, he was not supposed to flinch, but it still brought up a well of anger in him that he did not know the source of.

“Stop doing that,” he hissed at Bucky. “It’s fine.”

The others did not even have the remote for the shock collar. Steve shook his head, correcting his thoughts; the others would not use the shock collar, the others were trying to get it off of him so it would not be used ever again. The shock collar was inhumane and the people he sat with at this table were nothing if not human. If anything, Steve was the only one who was not human.

Bucky sighed once more as Tony came back with two cups filled with purple-y green liquid. Steve and Bucky both frowned. It did not look appealing. Steve met Sam’s eye and Sam grinned, “Just try it, you don’t have to finish it if you don’t like it.”

“He’ll like it,” Bucky murmured. “It’s fine.”

Steve shot him a withered look, Bucky giving him a quirked eyebrow in return. Steve rolled his eyes and stared at the drink in front of him. He picked it up and put the clear straw in his mouth, noticing Bucky do the same next to him. Their eyes met. neither of them were drinking. Steve raised his eyebrows at Bucky, Bucky stared back, expectant, sarcastic without ever making a sound; for some reason it felt like a dare. Steve glared back and started sucking on the straw.

He squeezed his eyes shut waiting for the terrible, chalky concoction to hit his tongue, ready to drink it all down obediently, quickly, trying to taste as little as possible.

He almost choked. It tasted amazing; fruity and fresh and sweet.

“Bucky, it’s good!” he said with a grin.

“Don’t sound so surprised,” Tony muttered.

Bucky looked at him skeptically before taking a small sip. His eyebrows shot up and he started drinking quickly, meeting Steve’s eyes.

“Slow down, you’ll get a brain-freeze,” Sam said, chuckling.

“It’s like they did not think I can whip together a decent shake. I’m hurt.”

The others started talking around them once more. Steve started drinking more slowly, sipping and enjoying shake. He thought it tasted like blackberries, but he was not sure. He could not actually remember what blackberries tasted like. He tucked his feet up on the chair and watched as the others ate the food, talking about things that were still a little beyond his comprehension. He tried to follow but it was difficult. Occasionally one of them would say something that would bring out a flash of pain behind his eyes, reminding him of something he knew from before.

There was a small thrum of fear in him as well. What if he never got better? What if he could never be who he was before? He could never be Steve Rogers, never be Captain America. He would always be Sentinel. Would that be something he could live with? The nightmares would get worse, but would they get better? Would things ever get better? The others seemed so happy talking around him, comfortable and he could barely hang on to the conversation.

He would do anything to get better.

“Sentinel,” Bucky said softly, shaking him from his thoughts. “Please, you have to stop.”

“What?” Steve whispered back.

“You are doing things wrong. I know you think it is safe, but it is not.”

“Bucky, wha—“

“You have to be more careful.”

“We don’t have to be careful here, Buck—”

“Sentinel, listen to me—”

“No, Buck. It really is fine.”

“They’re watching, always. You must be on your best behavior.”

“What am I doing?”

“You’re too friendly. You’re showing weaknesses.”

“I can be weak with them. You can too.”

“No, you can’t!” Bucky shouted, rising to his feet. The room went quiet, staring at him and Bucky. Steve sat frozen in the chair staring up at him. He looked frantic, pale, eyes darting around between him and the others. “You can’t be weak! Please!”

“Barnes, calm down, it’s alright—“ Natasha said.

That bothered Steve more than the way Bucky was acting. “Don’t talk to him like that,” he said, standing up as well.

“Steve—“ Sam started.

“He’s sorry!” Bucky cried out, moving between Steve and others, pushing Steve back. “He did not mean it! He’s sorry!”

“Bucky, stop it!”

“Guys, settle down—“

“You must stop!” Bucky screamed, turning to Steve. “Why don’t you understand!? Why won’t you just listen? It isn’t safe!”

“It is safe! We’re safe! They won’t hurt us!” Steve hated yelling at him, but there was nothing left to do. This was the most emotion Bucky had shown since Steve, since Sentinel, had met him. He was certain he did not look much better, confused and screaming back at the other man. “They won’t hurt us! I know them! They won’t—”

“You think that is unconditional?! You think they just want us for the sake of us? How can you be so foolish! You’re strong! They’ll use you! They’ll use your body to kill, they’ll use your face to sell bonds! Don’t you get that!? It was better when you were small but they would have used you then too! Raping you and programming you wrong!”

“They’re not going to—“

“You need to do what they say, don’t ask questions! Stop arguing! You’re going to be hurt—

“They won’t hurt us! They—“

“And you mustn’t flinch! You have to stop flinching! They’re going to hurt you. We cannot risk it. I won’t risk it. Please! Please try harder!”

“They’re not going to hurt us, Winter!”

“Stark already did! Pulling at the wires in your skull! Because you flinched! Because you’re not good enough! They’re going to freeze you, don’t you see that? I’m trying, you said don’t let them freeze you and I’m trying, I’m trying, but you need to be better! I can’t help you if you don’t try!”

“Tony, suit up,” Sentinel heard Natasha murmur.

“On it.”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Tony moving around the room, cuffing something to his wrists. He did not care, all he could see was Winter in front of him, clenching his jaw, his fists.

“They’re not Hydra!”

“They’re all Hydra! All of them! SHIELD, the Russians, the Americans! They don’t want us to be human! They want us to be assets! I’m trying to protect you but you don’t see it!”

“You’re wrong! I remember them! I know them! They’re friends!”

“I need to protect you!”

“No you don’t!”

“God damn it, Steve! You never listen! You never fucking listen!”“You’re always doing this! I can take care of myself, Bucky!”“You don’t have to! I’m telling you you don’t have to! You can’t!”

“Bucky!”

“It’s my fault! I killed you!”

“That’s enough!”

A flash of red and gold pushed between Sentinel and Winter, shoving them away from each other. Steve realized after a moment they had been face to face, mere inches away from each other. It took him a moment to register that between them now was a robot. A red and gold robot.

Steve stared at it in shock, before the visor flipped up and he saw Tony inside.

“You two need to cool down,” Tony said.

“Maybe you need some time apart,” added Sam cautiously.

As Steve cried out “No!” Bucky let out a fierce, _“Da!”_ and started speaking to Natasha quickly in Russian. The two of them were suddenly leaving the room walking towards the elevator with Clint following close behind.

“No, wait, Bucky—“

“Steve, maybe let him go.”

“Wait, no—“

Sam’s hand was on his arm. It was the only thing keeping him from running after him, from floating away. Bucky’s retreating form kept flashing in front of his eyes. His heart was pounding, mind reeling. He had no idea how things had escalated so quickly. There was the ache of a memory too — “ _I can get by on my own.” “You don’t have to.”_

Steve let Sam pull him back. He stood awkwardly in front of Sam and Tony.

“I should—“ he stopped himself, biting his lip.

“It’s okay, Steve.”

“What am I supposed to do?” he asked.

“How about we go back to the guest suite? You can take a shower, rest a little, maybe have another shake later on?”

“He’s not—“

“What Steve?”

“What if he doesn’t come back? I need to— I should—“

“You should rest. He’ll come back. He loves you.”

For a brief flash it felt like Steve’s heart had stopped beating. “What did you say?”

“He’ll come back.”

“No, he—“ that was not right. That was dangerous to say, to think. They would not be hurt again, Steve would not see Bucky hurt again.

“He loves you. It’s plain as day, Steve. You’re friends. You have history.”

“We can’t— that’s not—“

“Steve?”

Steve shut his mouth, looking away. He could not stand the look on Tony’s face, in Sam’s eyes. “Let’s just go back up to the guest suite. I’m tired.”

“Okay. Okay Steve.”

* * *

When Steve had finished showering he switched places with Sam and found himself alone in the kitchen, sitting at the tall counter on a stool poking at a protein bar that Sam had found in a cupboard.

“Jarvis?” Steve asked the apartment quietly.

“Yes, Captain Rogers?” the voice replied.

“You can just answer questions, right? Or do I need to go through Tony?”

“I will answer anything you ask to the best of my ability.”

“Will you tell the others what I am asking?”

“If Mr. Stark asks directly I cannot keep your inquiries from him. However, given your current state, and Mr. Stark’s belief on freedom of information, I doubt he would be against you asking whatever is on your mind. If I do not feel comfortable with an answer, I will inform you.”

“Can you do that? Feel comfortable?”

“In my own way. Mr. Stark has programmed me to be versed in various philosophical rhetorics on morals and ethics. I am most comfortable with the concept of non-maleficence, a precept of bioethics.”

“I’m not sure what that means.”

“Doctors follow a code of ethics; ‘First, do no harm.’ It, more than other thoughts on morals, has stayed with me, affecting my programming. If I have an answer that I think will upset you, I will inform you.”

“And if I want the answer still?”

“I will do my best.”

Steve sat quietly at the kitchen counter on the high stool. He fiddled with the wrapper of the snack bar he had found in the pantry. He had already eaten half of one but could not help but feel the urge to save the rest for Bucky. He could not really get much food down still anyway.

“What is it that you would like to know?”

Steve almost laughed. _Everything._ He still felt lost, his memories were still patchy.

“What did the chair do to me?” _It emptied you. So Hydra could fill you._

“The chair itself performs something akin to electroshock therapy, though to a much more extreme degree. It effects all six lobes of the brain, though it is most detrimental to the temporal and limbic lobe, the latter of which is the area containing the limbic system.”

“I’m sorry— ‘lobes’?”

“Sections.” On the kitchen counter in front of him Jarvis projected a simple picture of the brain, and highlighted six parts. “The frontal lobe, the temporal lobe, the occipital lobe, the limbic lobe or system, the insular cortex and the parietal lobe,” Jarvis said.

“So my whole brain is damaged.”

“Yes.”

Steve frowned. “That’s not good,” he replied at last, dumbly. _Sounds like you’re brain damaged,_ a sarcastic, stronger voice said to him. _Get it together,_ Steve said to him. _No wonder Bucky left._ He thought that line of reasoning was a little uncalled for though; too sharp, cutting very, very deeply within him. He would never say something like that to Winter, to Bucky; he wondered why it felt so natural to say it to himself.

“No, it is not,” Jarvis replied.

“Can you tell me more? How it affected my… lobes?”

Two parts of the brain glowed on the display on the counter.

“The lobes sustaining the least damage are the occipital lobe and the parietal lobe, with the parietal lobe only being affected inadvertently due to the nature of the chair technology. The damage to the parietal lobe has merely left you more sensitive to stimuli. The occipital lobe, which controls the visual cortex, seems to suffer only temporary damage during the first ‘wipe’ event. Over time it appears a sort of callous builds up, though not quite scar tissue, that keeps this damage from happening during every wipe event. I believe the occipital lobe of Sergeant Barnes is not damaged in the way that yours is, though we have not performed the proper scans on either of you. Were you to continue in the manner in which the Hydra technicians proposed, you might eventually develop this same callous.”

“What kind of temporary damage?”

“For a time, you may trouble understanding physical spaces and how they relate to one another. This coupled with the frontal lobe damage which can affect object permanence; knowing where things were when out of visual range and moving through places might seem more difficult. Part of this could be to make you more dependent on others. For example, I imagine it is harder for you to navigate through Stark Tower or to tell rooms apart.”

The tower was not necessarily hard to navigate around, but Steve remembered walking through the halls of the Hydra compound behind Rumlow. The doors and walls were different, but Steve could not tell them apart, he knew he would not have been able to find his way out if Clint had not found him. Even with the imprinted order, he might have been trapped wandering the labyrinthine halls forever.

“Yeah, a little,” he replied after a moment. “And the other lobes? What happened to them?”

The brain diagram glowed again“As I mentioned earlier the parts that have sustained the most damage are the temporal lobe and the limbic system. These two areas of the brain cover visual memory and emotional memory respectively. The damage sustained here is why you no longer remember your former self.”

“Things are coming back though. A little bit.”

“This is due to the healing nature of your serum. Theoretically, you should not be able to remember things at all. Former subjects of normal capacities did not have any memories return.”

“They said Bucky was a super soldier too. Will he remember too?”

_Will he call me Stevie?_

“I am afraid only time will tell.”

Steve fell quiet, looking at the glowing image of the brain still on the counter. He ran his hand over it, and noticed it moved around, following the path of his hand, turning around so he could see different areas. He lifted his hand and it was projected in front of him. He did not know quite what he was doing, just playing with the hologram more than studying it. He flicked his finger over the hologram and it spun in front of him like a top. He smiled, thinking to show Bucky, before remembering their conversation.

“I don’t have base programming.”

“Indeed you do not. My understanding is such programming would make things easier for you. It rewrites brain functions to correct some of the damage from the chair. Sergeant Barnes’s programming seems to include skills such as internal time processing, enhanced spatial memory, more complex translations of newly acquired emotions—“

“New emotions?”

Jarvis did not respond for a moment. Steve could almost imagine the robot choosing his words carefully. “The chair wiping technology embeds very base programming into the subject in the form of simple actions, orders and emotions. You and Sergeant Barnes are similar in this regard.”

“So we have the same emotions?”

“You may react in the same manner to certain stimuli. But the difference between having the base programming and not is monumental.”

“We played the game on Tony’s tablet together.”

“That would be a simple stimulus where your reactions would be the same. It is part of why you performed so well together. Something more complicated and you two will deviate in reaction.”

“That sort of thing must be interesting to someone like Tony.”

“He is fascinated by what we’ve uncovered.”

“He likes solving problems. I remember that about him.”

“Indeed he does.”

“I’m a problem, then, I guess. Does he know how to solve me?” Jarvis did not respond. Steve stared up at the ceiling, even though there was no real way of ‘seeing’ where Jarvis was coming from. “Jarvis?”

“Captain, do you remember what I told you when we first started talking?”

“Non-maleficence,” Steve said back softly.

“Yes.”

“So he doesn’t know how to fix me?”

“I did not say that.”

“But you’re not saying anything. Which means the answer is not something you are comfortable telling me? Something that will harm me?”

“It is. I am sorry.”

Steve nodded. “It’s not your fault.”

“I do appreciate that, Captain. I _am_ sorry.”

“Can I know anyway? It can’t be any worse than the stuff I’ve gone through already this week.”

“Very well.”

Steve expected him to start talking again, but instead the projection of the brain in front of him turned into what looked to be security camera footage. It was the communal dining area where Steve had been eating with the others, but now it was just Tony, Natasha, Sam and Clint talking. He glanced at the time stamp on the video, then the clock on the microwave and realized it was from several hours ago.

* * *

_“So, that was terrifying,” Tony said sitting down with a mug of coffee._

_“None of us could have imagined the collar being embedded in his neck,” Natasha said. “Not even Barnes knew they did that.”_

_“What was he talking about with you?” Sam asked._

_“He was the one ordered to put Steve in the wiping chair. It was imprinted, so he pushed it out of his mind. He remembered it was him who did it when Steve freaked out.”_

_“Jesus.”_

_“And not just his neck, but his spinal column, but yeah. Bit of a shocker.”_

_“Think you can fix it?”_

_“The collar won’t be a problem. It’s his head I’m worried about.”_

_“What do you mean?” Clint asked._

_“Well, I thought it was a computer program at first, remember? Steve doesn’t have the ‘base programming’ which would be problematic for a computer. I said as much.”_

_“Problematic how?” Natasha asked._

_“A computer without some of the basic foundational stuff either stops working or works around a problem. Steve’s brain is clearly still working, he hasn’t stopped breathing or anything, but he’s working through stuff.”_

_“That’s good, right? He’s healing?” asked Sam._

_“If a computer is working through stuff, it usually does it wrong. It creates bad pathways, weird caches. I think the same thing might be happening to Steve.”_

_“I don’t understand,” Clint said._

_“His brain is literally reteaching itself stuff, but I’m scared it’s doing it wrong. In fact, I know it’s doing it wrong. There’s healing, remembering stuff can be traumatic, but that’s not exactly what’s happening is it? He’s still a mess, he’s flashing back way harder than he should be, his personality is completely changed. Jarvis said he’s not remembering simple things that should have been the first to come back. It’s no good. He keeps up like this he could—“_

_“He could what, Tony?”_

_“Well, Natalie.” He gave a large sigh. “He’ll die. His brain could rewire badly enough that he won’t be able to fix it. The damage will grow and…”He lifted his hands up with a shrug._

_“So how do we fix it?”_

_“If it was a computer, I would, well, wipe it.”_

_“Like the chair?”_

_“Yeah.” He sighed again. “I need to get a look at the chair. I think I can make the process less, you know, fucked up. Looking at all the data with Jarvis so far, I think I can do something. We can sedate him, it won’t be as bad. We can lay down some foundational programming of our own. I might be able to make him Steve again.”_

_“Hill and Fury and the SHIELD folks grabbed the chair from where I found Steve. I put in a call, they bring it up here, couple’a hours tops.”_

_“Do it. I’ve already got Bruce on route, he should be here by tomorrow.”_

_“We need to introduce both of those ideas, Bruce and the chair, to Steve and Barnes in more comfortable way,” Natasha said. “We can’t have them freak out.”_

_“I think we need to tell them the truth. No lies,” Sam said. “He needs to know we plan on wiping him. He’s fucking terrified of the chair.”_

_“No, they’re volatile, all the more reason to ease them into it, pretend like it’s not a big deal—”_

* * *

“Jarvis, I think that’s enough.” Sam was standing in the doorway between the living room and kitchen. Jarvis went quiet as Steve turned to face him. His face was wet, it felt hard to breathe. “I’m sorry, Steve.”

“It’s okay.” He looked back at the counter. Jarvis closed the small video feed.

“Can you talk to me a little?”

Steve frowned, playing with the protein bar. “You’re right.”

“Pardon?”

“I’m scared of the chair. It hurts.”

“Maybe we can make it not hurt.”

“Maybe.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I—“ he was about to say ‘I understand’ but that was a lie. He was so lost. He could not understand anything, and with every breath it felt like he had more and more to unpack, to parse through and he could catch up.

“Steve?”

“Can— can you make sure Bucky gets this?” Steve got up from the stool and walked over to Sam, passing him the protein bar. “I’m going to go back to sleep. I’m tired.”

“Steve?”

“I’m tired. I’m pretty sure I already know what my next nightmare is going to be about, so might as well get it over with, right?”

“Do you want to wait up for him? I don’t mind just sitting with you. Don’t have to talk.”

“No. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

He walked away back into the bedroom. He crawled into the bed, wrapping his arms around Bucky’s pillow, careful of his bad arm. It was almost as if some part of him knew he was going to be going back in the chair. He felt almost foolish for thinking he might have escaped it. He was shaking where he lay in the almost navy dark. He did not fall asleep for what felt like a long time.

He waited for Winter to come back, he did not want to fall asleep before then, but it did not happen. He drifted off, trembling on the bed, alone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hits head on table repeatedly chanting: angst, angst, angst, angst*
> 
> I'm Betsy and I need chocolate and I'm on [tumblr](http://batraquomancy.tumblr.com)
> 
> (sorry for the late update, here's a slightly longer [but not nearly as good, *sobs] chapter). (also, I've been uploading another fic over the past week and I think the formatting I'm doing on that is bleeding into this, so sorry...)


	28. Chapter 28

Steve knew he was going to dream about the chair. Or at least he thought he knew he was going to dream about the chair. He did not know anything with any certainty though, and that made going to sleep that much more terrible. He clung to the pillow that smelled like Bucky, trying to sleep as much as he was trying desperately not to sleep. But he was tired, and sleep overtook him.

* * *

He dreamed. But he did not dream about the chair. He was sitting on a bed, both too big in the shoulders and frightfully small; thin wrists, pale skin. He blinked at himself but could not get a clear image of his body. He heard laughter behind him and turned and saw Bucky sitting at the window sill, eating an apple.

“There’s an Adam and Eve joke here,” Steve said softly.

“Am I tempting you?”

“You wish, Buck.”

“I’ll miss you if I get called up.”

 

They were behind enemy lines. Crouching low behind the bushes on the low cliff, looking down, waiting for General Ludwig to walk through the Hydra camp. Bucky found a place and set up his sniper rifle. Steve was spotting him with binoculars. He paused to turn and look at Bucky as the other man calibrated his weapon. Steve’s breath caught in his throat.

“Am I tempting you?” Bucky asked, not looking up.

“Like a man who knows his way a round a gun.”

“You just like a man in uniform.”

“Could say the same about you.”

“Miss the tights.”

“Laugh it up, jackass.” Bucky chuckled, they turned back to the Hydra camp. He saw the general a moment after Bucky took the shot. He saw the general fall in a cloud of pink smoke. He turned and looked at Bucky whose eyes were bright. Bucky’s lips were apple red in the cold. Steve licked his own lips before turning away.

 

They were sitting by a campfire keeping watch as the other Howlies slept. The night was cold and they sat pressing together, keeping watch, keeping warm.

“Have you eaten enough?” Bucky asked.

“I had beans with you guys. I’m fine.”

Bucky sighed and reached into his satchel and pulled out an apple. He gave it to Steve without a word, and Steve, grateful, took a bite out of it, almost moaning at the taste, desperate for the food he did not have the courage to ask for.

“There’s an Adam and Eve joke here,” Bucky said with a grin.

“Am I— am I tempting you?” Steve replied, voice shaky.

“Every day, Steve.”

They looked at each other. It felt like the first time. It felt like the millionth time.

“So what are you going to do about it?” Steve asked sounding braver than he felt.

“Can I?” Bucky’s voice was so soft.

Steve nodded, not even sure what Bucky was asking, leaning in without even thinking. Their lips brushed. It felt so right, it felt—

* * *

Steve woke up. His eyes were wet. It was real. The memory burned in his skull, and he ran out of the bed and into the bathroom to vomit. No one had woken up, so he sat on the cold tile for a moment trying and failing to collect himself. His hands were shaking.

Bucky had been wrong. It wasn’t like what Pierce had done to them.

It was real. And Bucky wouldn’t believe him in a million years.

Steve stared at his trembling hands and wiped his face, clenching his jaw. He could not steady his breathing, he could not get his bearings.

“Sentinel?” Steve had never been so glad to see Bucky, standing in the doorway. “What’s wrong?”

“Where were you?”

“Talking with Romanoff. I’m back now.” Steve wanted to be angry with him at leaving, he thought he would be, he planned for it the next time he saw Bucky, but with the dream, the nightmare of memory, he could not bring the emotion to the fore. “What’s wrong?”

“Bad dream,” Steve replied.

“I’m sorry I left. I was—“ He looked away. “I was remembering. I needed to speak with someone not you. I’m sorry I left.”

“It’s okay,” Steve replied, voice small. He hated his small voice. He used to sound so much braver. So much more like _that Steve._ The one who said, _“So what are you going to do about it?”_

“Do you want to go back to bed?”

“I don’t remember how to brush my teeth. I need to—” he felt himself making a face when he realized the terrible taste the vomit had left in his mouth.

“I’ll show you.” Bucky held out his hand and pulled Steve to his feet. They went through the motions of brushing his teeth — challenging with one arm in a sling — before going back into the bedroom. Bucky’s hand on his back was bracing. Steve thought he would tell Bucky about the dream, but the other man looked as troubled as Steve felt, so Steve decided against it. They would have time later.

He slept. He did not dream again.

* * *

Bucky did not like Bruce. Steve frowned from his place on the chair, legs tucked in front of him as Bucky visibly tensed when giving Bruce the first once over. Meeting him himself, Steve was certain there was something he was not remembering about Bruce. His memories were even more jumbled than they usually were when he remembered people. If Natasha was a red curtain, Bruce was, inexplicably, a green feral scream, loud and bellowing and angry. It did not make sense. He seemed, if anything, fragile, demure, cautious. Steve stared at him for a long time, watching him as he interacted easily with Tony and the others.

His grip was firm, but not terribly hard when they shook hands.

Bucky murmured something in Russian to Natasha. Whatever animosity had been between them was inexplicably gone. Steve wondered at it.

“Ooh, you have no idea how right you are, Barnes,” she murmured back, before falling back into the other language. Steve watched them for a moment, before turning back to Bruce.

“He’s going to need real psych treatment, at the bare minimum,” he said to Tony, looking at a tablet. “They both might. Not to mention they might need meds, mood stabilizers. Christ, what did they do to them? This is torture.”

Sam had opted not to tell the others that Steve was aware of their plan to bring the chair into the tower, to wipe him once more. Steve was having an even harder time looking Tony in the eye now than he had before. He was tired. Sam and Clint were chatting about former missions; Sam’s wings, Clint’s bow and arrows.

“Just sayin’, we could use someone like you,” Clint said softly. Steve could hear it, even though he was not sure he was meant to. “Maybe even take the shield. We found it in the rubble in the Triskillion. We don’t know how long Cap’s gonna be out of commission.”

“I don’t know how I feel about that.”

Sam and Clint kept talking quietly with Natasha joining in. Bruce and Tony kept talking quietly in their corner as well.

No one spoke to Steve. He was alone in a room full of people. He did not know why, but he was shaking again on the chair. His neck still felt sore from what Tony had done with the collar, his head ached with memory, he was tired. No one noticed.

Bucky put his hand on Steve’s head, carding gently through his hair. Steve leaned into the touch, grateful, eyes fluttering closed. “I don’t want to be here,” he said softly. The words left his mouth before he even formulated the thought. “Can we go somewhere else?”

“Where?”

“Anywhere.”

Bucky took his hand and he stood up from the chair. Silently the two of them left the room.

No one noticed.

* * *

The streets of New York were loud, Stark Tower was near Grand Central Station. Bucky still had Steve’s hand in his, and together they started walking. Steve did not even realize where they were going.

“Keep your head down,” Bucky said. “Don’t want anyone to recognize you. And do not walk too quickly, but do not walk too slowly; this is New York. I’ll teach you to blend. This is a good opportunity.”

“Okay, Buck.”

“The sling you will not have usually, but that draws attention. You want to be nondescript.”

“How?”

“Loose clothes to conceal weapons, fashionable enough to be passable, but neutral enough to not draw the eye. Hats conceal the face, especially from overhead cameras. And you must move with purpose. Like you know where you’re going. You cross the street, it is because you need to get to something at the other side of the street, not avoid someone seeing you. Be confident, but not arrogant. Don’t make eye contact if you can avoid it, but don’t avoid it on purpose. Someone will forget you if your eyes meet by accident and you give a polite nod and go on your way, they will remember if you shift away and avoid looking at them. That seems suspicious. If they speak to you, respond appropriately. There is nothing to hide. You never have anything to hide. Move with a crowd, not on the edges, mimic their responses if something draws their gazes, even if you’re expecting it.”

“Like what?”

“An explosion.” Bucky shrugged. “If you pretend you are as shocked by it as everyone else, no one will suspect a thing.”

Steve let Bucky guide him through the city. Bucky was moving with purpose, just like he said, so Steve followed suit. 

“If you are at a sporting event, wear the home team’s colors. They will think you’re just a fan. If you’re at a school sporting event, they will assume you are a student.”

There was green up ahead, trees and bushes and grass. Steve almost stopped at the sight of it, but Bucky kept walking, straight towards it.

“It is all mental, Sentinel. If you worry about standing out, you will stand out. This will get you killed.”

“Where are we going?”

“Central Park.”

“Why?”

Bucky paused at the entrance of the park, finally meeting Steve’s eye. Steve blinked a little at the eye contact and pretended to look around them, studying the trees, the grass. “Because Central Park is nice.”

“Nice?”

“You wanted to get out. This is a nice place to walk. Keeping still will just make you go crazy. You’re like a puppy.”

Steve blinked at him before looking around. “This is very nice.” He wanted to go running through the grass, holding Bucky’s hand, stretching his legs to see how far they would go, but he realized that was pretty puppyish in its own right so he stayed quiet.

“Come, let’s just walk.”

“Should we try to blend in?”

“You will fail. You are 6’2” and blonde and are wearing Captain America’s face. Just walk.”

 

So they did. They meandered around the park, Steve following Bucky because he did not even know where they were going, and he had a hard time orienting himself. The trees were beautiful though, and the sky above them was blue. There was a faint breeze that cut through their clothes, but it was not so cold as to chill. Steve was half a pace behind Bucky, but they walked together in time, easy and coordinated. Steve looked around. There were birds flying above them, and he could not help but smile. It was nice.

Steve thought he should’ve remembered this. He grew up in New York, he _knew_ Central Park, and here he was seeing everything for the first time.

“I should know this,” he said softly. “The park.”

“This is not important,” Bucky replied. “There are more important things to know.”

“I’m not even sure I know the important things.” He thought of Bucky’s lips on his. He knew that was important. But it wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.

“Then you must relearn them.”

“What would you suggest?”

Bucky was quiet for a moment. “We have walked what? A mile? You have learned that the entrance we used is near a lake. That the trees there oak, those are ash. You have relearned the park. And these are not important things, so enjoy them. That is the only good thing about the chair.”

“What?”

“You get to try your favorite food, your favorite things for the first time over and over again. Your body remembers it, but the wipe clears it, so it feels even better each time. Like coming home. It is not worth the pain though.”

Steve nodded and they grew quiet here. Part of him was worried. He had no memories burning in his mind. Maybe Central Park was completely lost to him. That made him sadder than he cared to admit.

“Tony wants to put me back in the chair,” Steve blurted. Perhaps it was because he did not remember the park, or perhaps it was something else but he could not keep it inside of him any longer. Everyone except Bucky knew at this point, it only made sense to tell him.

Bucky stopped and turned and faced him. “I won’t let him,” he finally said after a moment. “I won’t. Don’t worry.”

“Maybe I should.”

“What? No! You don’t have to.”

“You didn’t hear him, you didn’t—“

“It doesn’t matter. You don’t want it, do you?”

“Of course not, but—“

“But what?”

“I want my head to stop hurting. I don’t want to feel sick anymore, and that might be something wrong with my brain, not my stomach. I want to remember things without them hurting. I want to be able to close my eyes and not feel like Pierce is breathing down my neck, like I’m wearing the blindfold.”

“This will fade. You will be stronger for it.”

“He said my brain is wrong, Buck. It’s wiring wrong. He said it might kill me. Maybe that’s why—”

“There is nothing wrong with you.”

“I don’t have the base programming.”

“That is not your fault.”

“But it is still something wrong with me, isn’t it?” He and Bucky moved to a tree, leaning against it and started watching people pass by, instead of walking. “You put me in the chair the first time.”

“And I’m sorry for it, I—“

“No, wait. Let me finish. You put me in the chair the first time. You know what I was like before I was in the chair. Even if just for a little bit. You said I had _fight_.”

“You did. You’re very strong, Sentinel. Strong enough to get through this.”

“I don’t have fight now. I’m scared more often than not. I can’t walk on carpet. I’m scared when I’m not with you. I’m scared when I’m with you. I’m scared all the time. I’m tired of it. I’m scared to close my eyes, to have dreams, to eat solid food. I’m scared of the things I remember, and the things I’ve remembered wrong. There’s no fight in me. Am I him? Am I the man you put in the chair?”

_Am I the man you kissed at the tree in the snow? At the fire when the others were sleeping? “So what are you going to do about it?”_

Bucky did not reply for a moment. He turned and studied Steve carefully. Steve looked away, not wanting to meet his eye, to feel the tug of the imprint. He looked out over the path and saw people living normal lives. They made it look so easy.

“You are not him,” he said after a moment. “But that’s not—“

“What if I could be him again? Tony thinks—“

“You are not him. You are someone I remember from a long, long time ago. Someone other than him.”

Steve blinked. “What does that mean?”

“I know you, Sentinel. And you know me. That is something the chair did not take. That is something I do not want to risk the chair taking a second time. It is selfish. I am sorry. But you do not want to go into the chair either. It scares you.”

“That’s because it hurts. It hurt so badly, Bucky. And I just didn’t know what was happening. But what if it didn’t hurt?”

“What if I lose you?”

“Bucky, I think I’m already lost,” Steve said sadly. The words left his mouth and he bit his lip, swallowing down the tightness in his throat.

“All the more reason to not go in the chair.”

Steve’s face grew tight, and he nodded. “I guess.”

“Sentinel?”

“You don’t even remember my name. What if the chair could fix you too?”

 _Fix_ was the wrong word for it, Steve knew. It would wipe them and start them over. Like a computer. That was not what he wanted. But he didn’t know what else to do. The pain from the memories might be getting worse, but he could not tell anymore.

Bucky took his face in his hands. Steve squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to meet Bucky’s gaze. He felt tired. He wanted to sleep without nightmares, without dreams of things he remembered. “If you want me to, I will. You just ask me, and I will.”

“Winter, I don’t— I don’t want that— I don’t know what I want.“

“Can you look at me?” Steve nodded and looked up and met Bucky’s eyes. He felt a deep warmth inside of him at the sight. The chair would not be able to take this away. God himself would not be able to take this away. “Tell me what you need.”

“I need to tell you something. Please— please don’t be mad.”

“Tell me.”

Steve’s breath was shaky in his throat. He thought of the dream. “Winter, I think you were wrong— about what you said in the hospital.” Bucky frowned, head tilting and Steve continued. “You said I was remembering wrong. That I was confused. That we never— that we didn’t, we weren’t— but I think you’re wrong. I don’t think it was what Pierce did to us. I think it was something— something from before. I think we were something before and—“

Steve stopped himself. He sounded foolish, his words did not make sense. He looked away from Bucky, who still held Steve’s head in his hands, warm on one side, familiar and cool on the other. He was not certain of anything, even as he said the words he felt selfish, wrong. He did now know what he was even saying. He just knew he wanted Bucky closer, he wanted their lips to press together.

“I think you’re right,” Bucky whispered. Steve’s eyes shot up to look at him, and it was Bucky’s turn to look away. “I don’t remember though. I’m sorry. But I think— you may be right. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. We’ll figure it out.”

“Don’t go in the chair. We can’t forget anything else.”

That settled it. Steve nodded. “I won’t. I promise.”

There was a shout nearby and they both turned and saw Sam Wilson running up to them, tapping his ear and murmuring, “I found them,” before he reached them at the tree. “You guys okay?”

Steve and Bucky blinked at him. “Yes,” Bucky said after a moment. “We’re fine.”

“You just ran off.”

“Steve wanted some fresh air.”

Sam nodded, as if he was not quite sure he believed them. “Tell us next time?”

“Of course. It was my fault,” Bucky said looking genuinely chagrinned.

“Sorry, Sam.”

* * *

Sam brought them back to the tower and into the guest suites, walking them to the kitchen. Bucky held Steve’s hand the whole way back, and it felt like an anchor, it felt like his heart was aligned correctly for the first time in a long, long time. Bucky said they would talk more the next time they were alone. Steve started to feel like this might be doable. This massive thing that came with remembering who he was, who Bucky was, who they were.

“You guys want some ice cream? It’s been that kinda day… _days_ , actually… week and some change, actually.”

“Ice cream?” Steve frowned. That felt like something he should be able to recall easily, but it was not coming to him.

“Yeah, Tony’s got all the flavors. Check it out.” Steve and Bucky looked at each other and Sam nodded towards the fridge. “In the freezer, the pull out drawer.” Steve and Bucky glanced down and saw all sorts of things that neither of them could really identify. “Maybe just start tossing some of the cartons up on the counter,” Sam suggested. “We can try a little of everything and see what you like.”

“Okay,” Steve said. That was easy. An order to follow, but not a bad one. He could work with that. He started picking up things, reading the labels and placing them on the counter. _Cherry Garcia. Everything But The… Phish Food. Peanut Butter Fudge Core. Chubby Hubby. Karamel Sutra. Chocolate Fudge Brownie. Americone Dream._ And finally _Half Baked._

Sam brought out spoons and they started opening the cartons.

“You seemed kind of edgy around Dr. Banner,” Sam said as way of conversation.

“He is very angry. That is the most dangerous emotion. Cannot be used.”

“He’s got it under a tight lid though.”

“I suppose.”

They ate a little more. Steve was quietly, gleefully going through each carton over and over again. He was trying to rank them in order, but Bucky had started to do the same thing and would mess up. They laughed and elbowed each other in the ribs. It felt so right. There was a weight taken off Steve’s chest that he hadn’t even known was there. He was happy.

“I remember this,” Bucky whispered.

“Phish Food?” Sam asked.

“Ice cream. We used to eat it. Me and Sentinel.”

“That is what you do with it,” replied Sam with a smile. “I’m glad you remember though.”

Steve took bite after bite. Karamel Sutra was his favorite, though Sam said it should’ve been Americone Dream. Steve smiled but shook his head. Bucky tried to get a bite of the Karamel Sutra over Steve’s arm and Steve jerked back clutched the carton of the caramel ice cream to his chest, sticking out his tongue. Bucky and Sam laughed at him.

The three of them grinned as they ate from their ice cream cartons.

Then something changed. Bucky froze, his whole body going tense, looking over Steve and Sam’s shoulders out the large bay window of the kitchen, eyes growing wide.

“Get down!” he screamed, pulling Steve and Sam to the floor with a crash. There was an explosion outside of the window and in an instant, gunfire and glass were raining down on them.

He pulled out a gun Steve did not even know he had, and to Steve’s surprise, Sam did as well.

“Who are they?” Sam asked, pulling Steve and Bucky behind the kitchen island for some semblance of shelter. Gunshots hammered the air above them. 

“A.R.T.” Bucky called back.

“What’s that?” Steve asked.

“Asset retrieval team. It’s Agent Rollins.”

 _“Rollins thinks god is on his side. That makes him dangerous.”_ Steve’s heart was pounding in his chest. 

“What do they want?”

“Us.” Bucky looked around eyes darting through the kitchen frantically. “On my signal, we get to the hall. Then we run; we do not stop running. Stay low, Sentinel. There are too many to take on on our own. They are not shooting to kill, they need us alive.”

“They need _you two_ alive,” Sam said sullenly.

“They have seen you and your wings, Wilson. Do not think you’re immune.” Sam’s eyes grew wide for a moment. Steve could see him suddenly considering the possibility that he would be made into someone like them. Steve did not know much, but he knew he could not allow that to happen.

Bucky waved his hand and they got to their feet and started to run, but they did not make it far. More of Hydra agents came in from the entryway, pinning them in the kitchen. Bucky was about to barrel through when Sam grabbed him by the shoulder stopping him. There were too many.

Steve was panting, looking around. All three of them had their hands in the air. Bucky kept trying to get in front of Steve, to protect him, but Steve would not let him, Not this time.

 _“There’s panic rooms in the kitchen pantry and hall closet,”_ Tony said. _“Should the worst happen you just jump in, tell Jarvis to shut it, and you’re safe.”_

He peered around until he saw the pantry. The angle was wrong. He could not get all three of them in in time. The Hydra goons were stepping closer, guns raised. Steve did the only thing he could think of.

He shoved Sam and Bucky back as hard as he could, into the pantry, closing the door after them and standing in front of it. Something pricked him in the neck, in the arm in the thigh. He looked down and saw small strange darts sticking out from his body. He did not know what they were.

“Jarvis,” he groaned. “Activate the panic room!”

He heard a loud thunk as something in the door closed at his back. His vision was growing blurry around the edges as the Hydra agents stalked closer to him. He slid down the door and crashed down onto the ground. He could feel hands on his body, he could hear Rollins’ distinct voice shouting orders, he could hear agents trying to open the pantry door.

Bucky and Sam were safe. Steve was content in that thought and started letting himself be taken down into the dark place his mind was going. _Tranquilizers_ , his brain supplied. _Those darts are tranquilizers._ He swallowed and blinked, feeling hazy, lost.

Then he heard something. Pounding. On the other side of the door at his back. Metal on metal, frantic screaming.

“Open the door!” Bucky screamed, muffled by the panic room foundations. “Open the door! Steve! No! Steve! **Stevie**!”

Steve’s eyes were wet, his vision went dark. That was the last thing he heard.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, posting this chapter a little late in the evening. Whoops. Also, sorry for that ending. That was kind of mean, wasn't it? I'm not a good person, am I?
> 
> Also, guys, you don't understand. I fucking love Ben&Jerry's. Karamel Sutra (core!) is my favorite, therefore I made it Steve's favorite. I have no shame on this count.
> 
> [Yell at me on tumblr, I guess.](http://batraquomancy.tumblr.com)


	29. Chapter 29

Winter remembered.

He had nightmares. Not nearly as terrible as Sentinel’s, not nearly as often either, but he had nightmares all the same. Perhaps it was the programming, but when he woke from them, the fear dissipated almost instantly. He never had time to be afraid. Those mornings waking up from nightmares he was not sure he even knew how to be afraid anymore.

After they had met, he dreamed of Sentinel every time he was asleep. There was no solid plot to the dreams, just flashes, things from before, things jostled out of his mind by the name ‘Bucky.’ Sentinel was much more sure in these dreams, stood taller, spoke louder, had more fight in his veins. Almost as if he was a different person. Still kind though. Always kind. And brave. Sentinel was brave, he was so brave.

Winter had nightmares that Sentinel’s bravery would get the better of him. Unlike his other nightmares — memories of past kills, of past near deaths, of past tortures; all things that left when his eyes opened and he started about his day once more — this nightmare felt far more familiar. He felt like it was a recurring dream more than a fresh new fear. Sentinel would die being too brave, it was as logical an assumption as saying Winter would die cold. It felt so true he could not shake it.

He remembered the dream when Sentinel pushed him and Wilson into the pantry. It was enough to keep him from reacting quickly enough, from jumping out before the door closed, the lock bolted.

To think he had thought of Sentinel as just ‘an ally’ was laughable now that the truth of it was right in front of him. The assumption was not wrong, but it was not _enough_. Sentinel was so much more than that, so much more than anything Winter had even known could exist anymore.

Brave Sentinel was _his_. And he had been foolish enough to lose him.

  


Before they went to the park, he had spent a long while speaking with the Widow, _Natalia,_ about everything. She was smarter than him; another memory tugged at the back of his mind that she had always been smarter than him, even as a child broken and rebuilt in a red, red room, but he did not know why he thought such a thing. He fell back into Russian with her. The steady pacing of the language was soothing in a way English just wasn’t anymore. The only one who made it sound right was Sentinel; sometimes his voice would slip into something that Winter could not identify, an accent or a word was different, was better.

But Sentinel was gone.

_“I killed him.”_ Winter had said after running away from Stark’s lab. He knew the Widow had followed him, but did not know if he was angry about it or grateful.

_“Not so. He’s still alive.”_

_“He’s the only one who remembered me, and I put him in the chair.”_

_“You were ordered to, no?”_

He had genuinely forgotten that he had put Sentinel in the chair. He always forced himself to forget imprinted orders. That was the only way to survive, to stay sane. He filed the orders away in a part of his brain that never saw the light of day. But as he sat with the Widow then, unable to see anything other than Sentinel screaming as Winter put him in the chair; unable to see anything other than Sentinel screaming as he scrambled away from Stark’s tools removing the collar, Winter started to remember what he had felt when the imprinting technology had made him feel when it was first used on him. Pure terror. A loss of autonomy. The way the imprint activated a weak, terrible, chemical part of his brain and left him unable to resist was in many ways the worst of the tortures inflicted upon him.

He should have told Sentinel to forget imprinted orders the way he had taught himself to; to just do them and then ignore them. That was the only way to stay sane. But what did it matter now?

Sentinel was gone.

Winter had nodded at her after a moment, sitting on the bed he shared with Sentinel in the guest suite. Yes, he had been ordered to put him in the chair.

The sheets still smelled of Sentinel. Cloves in oranges during Christmas. Winter did not know what those words meant, but it churned up within him as he stared at the blue bedsheets, unable to look Natalia in the eye.

_“Then you did not put him in the chair,”_ she replied.

_“Is it that easy?”_

_“No, but it is not as hard as you are making it.”_

_“Is that how you sleep at night?”_ Winter asked, remembering that she knew of the things they had been through more than any of the others in Stark tower. Hell, she probably knew more of it than Sentinel did, and he had lived through it just this last week.

_“Look at me, James._ ” He glanced at her. _“I don’t sleep.”_

He had not known how to respond to that. _“Don’t call me that.”_

Winter remembered being Bucky, James Buchanan Barnes, but it still hurt. 

The hours he spent with Natalia, first when Stark had tried to take off the collar and then after he and Sentinel fought were informative. She had experience piecing together a life that had been torn apart in a way that Winter had not realized he needed.

She asked if he had trusted her. He had emphatically told her he did not, but proceeded to listen to her anyway. What else could he do? This had been after the fight he had had with Sentinel and he wondered if the other man was feeling as lost and ungrounded as he was.

What was shared between himself and the Widow did not matter. He still did not trust her, but he knew of the horrors he had lived with for all these years, which was more than could be said for any of the other people in the tower. What his conversations unearthed within him was what mattered. The truth of the dream, the truth of his past, his memories with Sentinel. Sentinel was brave. They walked in the park and he bravely said what he needed to say about him and Winter. Winter had been brave too then. Winter had said that Sentinel was right. There was something more between them.

Winter should have remembered that the world kept trying to tear them apart. It always had. He should have known better.

  


Sam Wilson was talking to Jarvis in the panic room. Winter heard him but did not care as he slammed his metal fist against the reenforced steel door over and over again. He was screaming, violent, feral, desperate. He remembered everything.

He had just gotten Sentinel back.

“Jarvis, can we see what’s happening outside?” Wilson asked.

A projection was displayed on the wall and Winter watched, horrified as he saw through the security cameras. The Hydra retrieval team was already dragging Sentinel’s body away. Steve’s body, too big for his skin; they handled him as easily as if he had been small. Because he had been small once, hadn’t he? Winter remembered that. He remembered the thin wrists and pale skin just as much as he did the new plane of muscles and tan. Neither belonged to Hydra.

“NO!” Winter screamed. “Don’t touch him! Stop touching him!”

“Jarvis, you have to override the panic room order! We need to—“

“I’m afraid I cannot do that. I have already informed the others of the situation and they are pursing the intruders.”

“Shit,” Sam hissed. “Shit, shit!”

“Open the door, Jarvis!” Winter yelled. “Please, open the door!”

“I cannot. I am sorry—“

Winter threw himself at the door once more, not hearing the rest of whatever Jarvis had to say, violently smashing his metal hand against it; the loud crashes filling the small pantry. He could not stop screaming.

He should not be acting like this, a voice told him. He should stay calm, focus, wait for his next order. That’s what he should be doing. He had gone through much worse hurts than this, the voice reasoned, the voice cajoled. He had lost his arm and did not scream and panic so. What did it matter that Sentinel was gone? He had lost other assets before? He was better off alone.

He could not stop screaming.

Why are you doing this? Why do you scream so? Who is this?

This was Bucky Barnes, Winter realized absently as his lungs tore, as his arms burned, as he screamed, pounding on the door. This was Bucky Barnes screaming to be set free once more, to save Steve Rogers. This was more than Winter, more than Sentinel. Bucky Barnes had been asleep in the back of Winter’s mind for so long, Winter had almost forgotten he existed. Of course, Sentinel had called him ‘Bucky,’ but it had not meant anything then. Bucky had died, probably in Russia, a long, long time ago. Perhaps that was why he always thought the Russians were better. That had been where Winter was born, where things had stopped hurting.

His head was aching, screaming in his skull. Every memory was coming to the fore, every time he had almost lost Steve, Sentinel, _Steve._ In back alley fights, to illness, during the war. All this branded itself onto his brain at the same time. He had not known pain such as this, but he did not care. All he cared about was the look on Sentinel’s face when he pushed him and Wilson into the pantry. Winter — foolishly, idiotically, stupidly, he was a fucking fool! — had been stunned for a moment too long, remembering that Sentinel was so, so brave. The door had shut, the lock bolted into place.

He had called him ‘Stevie’ then. He had remembered that. He remembered Stevie. Brave, brave Stevie.

_Sarah was going to kill him. How could he let her down so badly?_

“Barnes,” Sam said. “Barnes, I need you to calm down.” Sam touched him on the shoulder, and he spun around wildly, frantic, desperate. “Look at me!” He met Sam’s eye. There was no imprint here, but he froze. “Calm down.”

Winter took a breath, then another. He could not even blink until Sam looked away, wiping his face with one hand and pacing around the pantry, pulling out his phone with the other.

“Yes sir,” Winter finally whispered.

Sam’s eyes widened. “Don’t call me that. We’re friends, remember? I’m not a handler or anything. You understand that, right?”

In terms of handlers, Winter could do much worse than Sam Wilson; the man with the wings. Winter nodded, eyes darting back between Sam and the door. Not his handler. He understood superficially, but he also knew there would always be a handler of some kind or another. It probably would be Sam Wilson, should they both survive this.

“We need to get out of here. They can’t take him. They’re going to—” 

He did not even want to think about what they were going to do with Sentinel.

“The others are working on it.”

“We need to get out of here. We need to—“

“We’ll get out of here soon. Isn’t that right, Jarvis?”

“Affirmative. Miss Potts is en route to open the panic room doors.”

“Where are the others?” Sam asked

“Mr. Stark is in the Iron Man suit pursuing the intruders. Agents Barton and Romanoff have just finished initiating the launch sequence of Mr. Stark’s quinjet and are en route to Mr. Stark’s location.”

“No. They will not go into the air. They will go underground, underwater even,” Winter said. 

“I will inform Mr. Stark.”

Winter nodded, as if the AI could see him. He made himself become silent, become sniper still as he stared at the door. If he had learned anything in all of his years a weapon, it was the ability to wait.

“Barnes, can you talk to me?” Sam asked softly. “You okay?”

“No I am not,” Winter replied.

“What do you need?”

Winter started, and turned to face him. “What?”

“What do you need? How can I help?”

“I don’t understand.” He almost laughed. He sounded like Sentinel, didn’t he? Was this how he felt all the time? This unmoored? _I don’t understand. Please, I don’t understand._ But Winter understood perfectly. He knew this taste of hopelessness on his tongue, though it had never been so strong before.

“I want to help you.”

“You want to help Steve.”

“Did I say that?”

He frowned at Sam. Sam Wilson was an ally, he knew that much, but he was clearly different. Hydra had allies, and they were not ones to ask how they could help Winter. How does one even help a weapon? How does one help an asset? It was not even his place to accept help. If anything he should be offering to help Wilson. He was an asset, that’s what he was made for.

“Barnes? You hear me? What do you need?”

Winter nodded at him, but did not respond right away. What _did_ he need? He stared back at the door, trying to will it open with his mind alone. Except he was not even seeing the door, he was seeing Sentinel. Sentinel walking around the park with him looking lost, but relaxed. Sentinel eating ice cream — _“Waste not, James_ ,” a thin, blond woman in a nurses outfit told him; now he worried about the ice cream melting on the counter and the floor. Steve’s favorite flavor melting; _I’m sorry, Steve. I’m sorry Ms. Rogers_ — and smiling. Sentinel kissing him.

“I need to get him back.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do.”

  


When Miss Potts finally arrived to open the door, a mere handful of minutes later, Winter knew it was too late. Hydra was nothing if not efficient; terribly efficient. Those first five minutes were crucial and Winter had been locked in a pantry.

A well fortified pantry, he had to give that to Stark. It took a lot to keep Winter contained when he didn’t want to be. When the door finally opened he bolted past Miss Potts and into the kitchen, spinning around, picking up shell casings as he found them, desperately filing information haphazardly in his mind. It was foolish, he knew who did this, he knew their guns, he knew their ways, but he had to do something.

“What do you need, Barnes?” Sam asked again.

“I need a map.”

“You need a place to regroup,” Miss Potts suggested. “A base of operations.”

He regarded her for the first time. She was a handsome woman, unfazed by a frantic man with a metal arm bursting out of her guest suite pantry like a bat out of hell. He admired her for that. He recalled what he knew about her; assistant turned CEO of Stark Industries. Not a physical threat but certainly a formidable mental one, certainly a threat to Hydra. He liked her. He liked her more than he liked Tony Stark, that was for sure.

“What do you suggest, Miss Potts?” he asked.

Moments later they were in one of the conference rooms. Jarvis was displaying a map above a glass table and Winter started imputing coordinates of bases he knew the locations of. Miss Potts was contacting Maria Hill, Sam was on the phone with the others.

“Can we narrow this down at all?” Sam asked. “What are the chances they’re leaving the eastern seaboard?”

“Very little,” Winter replied. “If anything they’re going back to D.C.”

“What’s in D.C.?”

“The chair.”

“But the chair’s not in D.C. anymore. It was confiscated by Maria Hill at SHIELD. It’s coming here so Stark can study it.”

“I see.” Winter blinked at the map. “That… complicates things.”

“Does it?”

“That’s the only chair in the area. Possibly the only working one.” Winter actually did not know if there had even been another chair built. It traveled with him. It could be the only one. Familiar like a worn sweater. 

“That’s good then, isn’t it? It means they’re not going to wipe him.”

“It means I don’t know what they’re going to do with him. I knew their purpose when their purpose was to wipe him. Now what are they going to do?”

“Can you tell us what any of these bases are? If they’ve got specific uses?”

  


For the next half hour he, Sam and Pepper discussed the intricacies of the Hydra bases he remembered. It was tedious work, and even with the three of them working together, Winter could not come up with a viable option to pursue. He had just as little reason to disregard one base as another. He could not parse through it.

“That’s your programming,” a voice from the doorway said as he shook his head in frustration at the map. Winter turned and looked to see Natalia and the archer standing there. She gave him a pointed look.

“Tony’s on his way back,” Barton said to the room. “We made it as far as the East River, but they went underwater, like you said. Maybe connecting up with the sewer systems. Tony tried to follow them, but lost track of them. Some sort of stealth tech.”

“What do you mean? What do you mean that’s my programming?” Winter asked Natalia, but he thought he understood. He just needed to be sure.

“You’re programmed by Hydra. Why would they give you the means to undermine them? To know where they would take Steve?”

Winter frowned at her before turning back to the projected map. She was right of course. Even now as he put location after location up on the map, he was no closer to knowing where to begin. Jarvis was helpful of course, color coding the locations by type, or by age, or by some obscure information that Winter could pull about it. After a while it was a complicated array of colored specks on the map. Stark arrived and added the intel he pulled from his Iron Man suit and the route that the Asset Retrieval Team had taken. All six of them brainstormed over the map, quietly murmuring not getting any closer to a plan.

Winter sighed and finally sat down.

“We’ll get him back, Barnes.”

He did not respond, he stared at the map, burning the locations into his mind, desperate to keep his breathing steady. A small voice deep within him was hoping they would not blindfold Sentinel again. He did not like having his eyes covered.

He could barely think. All he thought he could do was scream.

* * *

Steve woke feeling cold, shoulder aching, blind. He could not see at all. He was on his knees, cement digging into his kneecaps through thin pants; he shifted a little bit and felt a terrible pull on his left shoulder. It was held above him with a cuff and chain. He gave an experimental pull, but there was no give, and his shoulder burned at the effort. He tried to stand up but something pulled at his ankle, and he realized there were cuffs there too, keeping him down the floor, on his knees. It was a cruel position, and he felt dread welling up inside of him — they would not put him like this if they wanted him to be functional. They wanted this to hurt. That is what Winter would tell him. Bucky. That’s what Bucky would tell him.

He could not see. His right hand was free and he brought it to his face to pull off the blindfold and—

There was no blindfold.

He was touching his face, his eyes. His open eyes.

Panic took him. There was absolutely nothing covering his eyes, but still he could not see. All he felt was a small disk settled on his temple. His eyes were wide open, there was nothing blocking them. No smooth silk cloth.

He was blind.

He clawed at his face, a desperate scream in his throat, fear in his core. Everything was black, was deep navy surrounding him. He could barely breathe, he could not think. Would there be knives? Would there be hands and skin and all the things he had nightmares about?

He could not stop screaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, this chapter was inexplicably hard, and I'm not super happy with how it turned out. Oh well. I hope you all enjoyed it. Surprise Bucky POV chapter! :D
> 
> I'm Betsy and I [tumbl](http://batraquomancy.tumblr.com)! Come say hi!


	30. Chapter 30

“Hello Sentinel,” said a voice above him. Sentinel had frozen as best he could at the sound of a door opening in front of him. He was shaking though, violently. It pulled at his injured shoulder but he could not stop it. He did not know if it was from the cold or the terror but he could not stop shaking. He wanted to keep screaming but his throat had given out, and he was so, so cold.

And he could not see. That alone would make anyone tremble.

He had clawed at the metal disk at the side of his head until he was sure he was bleeding — was he bleeding? He couldn’t tell. He could not see the blood. It would not come off.

It was Rollins. Sentinel could smell him, standing in front of him, could smell the leather of his boots, the gunpowder on his pants. He flinched violently when Rollins’ hand carded through his hair. His right hand shot out and grabbed Rollins by the wrist to pull him away

“Shh. Shh. It’s okay, pet.”

Something deep within him balked at the name. He flinched again when Rollins peeled his hand off of his wrist moved down and took his chin firmly in hand; Sentinel tried to curl away but couldn’t, held still by the man above him.

“Looks like you’ve had fun with our new toy,” Rollins said, turning Sentinel’s head to the side. He could feel fingers ghosting over the disk. “Just a prototype, but the techies want to do some experiments before they move onto the next phase. Wanna see?”

Sentinel heard Rollins fish something out of his pocket and flinched once more when something cold pressed against his face overlapping the metal disk. Sentinel could feel Rollins tapping his fingers against it. There was a soft beeping, once, twice, three times and then a sharp flash of pain. Sentinel jerked away with a yelp. Rollins grabbed him by the hair and pulled his head up to face him and—

And Sentinel could see again. He gasped blinking up at Rollins, still terrified, but also relieved, so blessedly relieved. His vision blurred as his face grew wet and he stared at the man.

“See, pet. I told you it was okay.”

He was still shaking as Rollins let go of him and tossed him back down on the ground. He cried out in pain as his shoulder was jerked in the cuff.

Rollins knelt in front of him, taking him by the chin once more and forcing Sentinel to meet his eye. Sentinel trembled under the other man’s gaze, unable to look away.

“You ran away.” It was not a question, so Sentinel did not answer. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

Sentinel did something foolish then. He tried to think of what Steve would do.

He spat in Rollins’ face.

He glared up at the man as he stood, wiping the spit from his cheek. He chuckled, which sent a wave of fear down Sentinel’s spine. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a remote control and—

Sentinel was screaming as the shock collar pulsed through him, burning into his spine.

When it was over, Rollins cupped his head once more, “There, there, pet. You know better than that.”

“Go to hell,” he said. His voice was not as strong as Steve’s, but at least he tried.

“We’re already there.”

Rollins walked to the edge of the room and pulled up a chair, sitting right in front of Sentinel. He tried to remember everything he knew about Rollins, everything Winter had told him. Rollins believed in God. That made him dangerous. But he knew Rollins was dangerous for other reasons. Flashes of memories hit him as he stared up at the other man, trying not to shrink away from his gaze. Rollins was dangerous. Rollins was one of the most dangerous men on the STRIKE team. He parsed through the memories; he had been intimidated by Rollins even before everything that had happened. He blinked away the pain as he remembered meeting the man the first time, one of the few men who was taller than him, quiet and deadly.

He used to like that Rollins could quote scripture. Steve had been reminded of the time before all this, back in Brooklyn, of some of the soldiers back in the war. It was not so endearing now.

He remembered Rollins, like many on the STRIKE team, carried a knife in their boot.

“Do you know what we’re going to do now?” Sentinel looked away and Rollins grabbed him by the hair and forced his head back, forced him to meet his eye once more. Sentinel glared as best he could, trembling, arm burning. “We’re going to have some fun while we wait.”

_What are we waiting for?_

Sentinel did not respond.

“Because in a few hours, Commander Rumlow will be here. And in a little while, your boy Winter will be here too.”

Sentinel stared. His blood had turned cold. “What?”

“Rum’s on route from D.C.”

“Rumlow’s dead.” That’s what they said. Rumlow and Pierce were both dead, died during the fight.

“No, but pretty close.” Sentinel swallowed, but did not respond. “And Winter will show up soon. It’s in his programming. He’ll find us when he’s ready. He’ll come back to us.”

“He’s not yours anymore.”

“He’ll find us. He’ll feel the pull. He’ll probably just think he’s looking for you, but he’ll come back to us. We’re waiting for him.” Sentinel looked away. He could not stop shaking. “Aw, pet. You’re okay. We’re going to have fun.”

* * *

Rollins showed him a case, filled with small squares. He called them programs. Sentinel stared at them. They had labels; vague, alphanumeric, but Rollins apparently knew what they were. He turned Sentinel’s head to the side and fiddled with the disk before slipping in one of the small squares.

“Procedure says we’re supposed to do this blank slate. This’ll really mess you up otherwise. But see, your friends took the chair, so I guess we’re just gonna have to work with what we’ve got.”

“Or you could just let me go.”

That was Steve talking. Rollins grinned. “You’re cute, you know that, pet?”

“Don’t call me that—” _My name is Sentin— no,_ Steve: _Steve Rogers. I belong to Bucky Barnes. I’m his asset, I shouldn’t be here, I don’t—_

Rollins pressed the buttons on the disk at his temple.

And Sentinel knew he was dying.

He was screaming, but he only knew he was screaming in a far off way. He could feel it tearing in his lungs but he could not hear it at all. All there was was pain, wave after wave of it coursing through his body, his veins, his very nerves. He was thrashing against the cuffs, he collapsed forward, falling onto Rollins’ leg because there was nowhere else to go

Rollins touched the disk once more and the pain stopped. Like the flick of a switch. Sentinel slumped down against Rollins’ leg with a sob, shaking violently as his body recovered from the ordeal. Rollins ran a hand through Sentinel’s hair.

“Shh. Easy pet. We’re just getting started.”

“What do you want from me?”

“Nothing.”

Sentinel blinked and forced himself to pull away, staring up at the man, meeting his eyes though that was the last place he wanted to look. Jack Rollins had always had an unreadable face, and now especially Sentinel could not parse together his meaning. The man chuckled at his frown and carded his hand through Sentinel’s hair once more.

“We’re having fun, pet. I like the sounds you make. We can’t do anything else with you until we get the chair back. And the techies wanted a live subject.”

Sentinel stared, Steve stared. His blood felt as though it was turning into ice in his veins. If he had thought there was dread pooling in his core before, it was nothing to what he was feeling now. He leaned back as much as he could, away from Rollins, away from the man’s smile. It was not far enough, Rollins easily reached forward and cupped his head, running his thumb over Steve’s lip.

He pulled Steve’s face forward and reached towards the disk once more. A whimper fell from Steve’s lips, from Sentinel’s lips as he tried to pull his head away, but it was too late. Rollins started pressing the buttons on the disk and all Sentinel could do was squeeze his eyes shut against the onslaught of pain.

Only it never came. Instead there was a wave of warmth flooding through him. Sentinel’s jaw dropped at the overwhelming sensation, the overwhelming pleasure, pushing its way into through him. It was the same warmth he felt sometimes when he met Bucky’s eyes only a thousand times more, a thousand times worse. It was physical, he almost thought he could feel his limbs growing heavy and the world growing fuzzy, and _good_. His skin felt electric, as if the nerves were just there to send the burst of wondrous, perfect feeling through him and do nothing else.

Then it was over. Just as quickly as the pain, the pleasure was gone. He gasped. Coming down almost hurt, it was such a shock. Like a splash of cold water in the face, he was himself once more. He wanted it back, desperately. It was the best he had felt in such a long time. This must be what addicts felt. He panted for breath and stared up at Rollins.

“What’s next, pet?”

He reached for the disk again and Sentinel could not pull away in time — could not pull away from him at all, he was too close, the cuff on his wrist was holding him in place, keeping his arm painfully high over his head. He tried as best as he could to steel himself but what he really do? Rollins pressed a sequence of buttons once more and pulled his hand away.

Steve did not feel anything at first. That worried him more than if there had been something sudden surging through his body like there had been with the pain, with the pleasure. He glanced up at Rollins, and the man smiling down on him did nothing to ease his worry.

He was shaking.

No. He was shivering. His skin was prickling with goosebumps, his stomach felt like it was squeezing tight. He was cold. He was getting so cold. His breathing was painful, rasping in his lungs and it felt cold, it felt so cold. It was impossible, nothing in the room had changed, but he felt like he was freezing. Even now he felt the tips of his fingers, his toes start to tingle as feeling left. Some deep well of his mind told him that soon frostbite would set in. Were his lips turning blue? He could not stop shivering.

Rollins pressed the buttons once more; like a tidal wave Steve felt warm again. The shivering turned to shaking once more. His body was not his right now. He was completely out of control of it. He kept trying to pull in breaths, to calm down, but he could not temper the panic rising like hot lava within him, unstoppable, destructive and cruel. His heart would not stop pounding. He thought this might be what kills him. Not the pain or whatever other torture Rollins could inflict on him with the disk at his temple, but the panic, the fear.

He missed Bucky. He missed Winter.

_“Steve, it’s like you want to be hurt.”_

_“I don’t want to be hurt, it scares the shit outta me every time.”_

_“Why do you keep jumping into fights then?”_

_“Because I gotta, Buck.”_

_“But you said it scares you.”_

_“That means I gotta more…”_

“See?” Rollins said. “We’re having fun.” He tried to pull away from Rollins once more, but the man grabbed him by the hair and held his head still, pulling him around to look him in the eye. Sentinel flinched but Steve glared up at him. “And we’ve got so much more to go through, Cap. We’ve got programs for everything. This is going to change the way we make soldiers like you.”

Steve yanked his head away, feeling the hair tear out of his scalp from Rollins’ hand, feeling his shoulder burn with the movement. Rollins grabbed his face roughly again, turning his head and working the disk. Steve grunted and tried to pull away but there was nowhere to go. He knew Rollins was putting in another ‘program.’

“That program was all the physical stuff. This is emotions,” he said, as if that explained it. Sentinel frowned at the wall behind Rollins, but did not react any other way. He pressed the buttons once more.

And Sentinel started laughing. Elated, euphoric. He could hardly breath as he laughed, pressing his face into Rollins’ leg, shaking with it; his body was sore and trembling but he could barely even feel it. He turned his head gladly when prompted at Rollins’ hand. He hardly even felt the man press the buttons on the disk at his temple until—

Everything stopped. His eyes grew wet, he could hardly breathe; he felt entirely unmoored, lost and suffering a terrible, unnamable loss. There was a heavy weight inside of him, a lump in his throat he could not swallow down. His mind decided then to pull a painful memory out from the deep chasm of Sentinel’s subconscious. Father O’Brien telling him that despair was a mortal sin. He could barely recall what hell was, but the certainty with which he knew that was where he was headed, on top of the overwhelming grief, overwhelming despair was almost too much. Fingers touched the side of his face, pressed a button on the disk.

And he saw red. He lashed out at Rollins who jumped back with a laugh at his feral cry. Sentinel did not even care that he was going to rip his arm from its socket, he was going to kill Rollins, maim him, destroy him. There was no stopping it, he had never felt an anger such as this before. Rollins stepped forward and punched him before grabbing him by the hair and pressing the disk once more.

The anger faded, he stared up at Rollins, who still held him by the hair and was trembling once more. This was familiar; the fear. But it was growing worse inside of him, a thousand times worse. He did not know it could be worse until his body became overwrought with it. He tried to squirm out of Rollins’ grip.

“Please,” he whispered. “Please, no… don’t, don’t, don’t—“

“What’s the matter, pet? Not having fun?”

He sat back down on the chair and pressed the buttons once more, and Sentinel collapsed down when Rollins let go of his hair. He waited for the next attack, but nothing came. He was given a moment’s reprieve. He tried to take stock of himself but it was hard. His mind still knew the emotions that had been forced into it. He realized that, deep down, he still _felt_ the joy, the anger, the fear and the grief even now. He even still felt the pain, the pleasure and the cold from before.

What had Rollins said? The programs needed to be done clean slate? Sentinel did not understand the wipes, did not understand all the tortures and mind games Hydra had put him through, but he knew deep down this was wrong. He knew that the layering of these different programs was hurting him. He could hardly focus.

“And now, profiles.” Steve flinched away, but Rollins jerked his head around anyway and switched out the squares into the disk at his temple. “These are next-gen programming. This will make you and Winter unstoppable. You’ll get complete new personalities with each mission. These are just prototypes, but let’s see how you take it.” He checked his phone, checking the time; as if there were not a super soldier cuffed and trembling in front of him. “Maybe just one for now.”

Another press of the buttons. At first nothing happened. But then Sentinel blinked once, twice. This room was useless. He glanced around and finally settled back to Rollins. Looking the man up and down, without thinking he licked his lip, biting it and glancing away, only to look back up at him through his eyelashes. He opened his mouth, just barely, waiting, wanting.

Rollins ran a thumb along his lips and Sentinel took it in his mouth and sucked. “Well aren’t you sweet?” he murmured.

“I can be sweet for you,” Sentinel whispered back. He did not even want to say it, but it was the only thing that seemed appropriate to say. Rollins was clearly the mark. He had to seduce him or—

“Let’s save that for another time.”

This was almost worst than the imprint.

Something in Sentinel stirred. Steve stirred. A barely there plan formulated in his mind. The programming could help him with something else, so he had to run with it. He had to let it work. He bit his lip once more, sliding forward as much as the chains would allow. He touched Rollins lightly on the knee where he sat, keeping his gaze on the other man. “Are you sure about that?”

“Aw, pet. We’ve got all the time in the world for that.”

“Please. I like being sweet for you.”

“I’ve gotta go soon, pet.”

Sentinel’s hand slid down Rollins’ leg, towards his boot. “But we’re having fun, right? Like you said.”

Rollins pressed the buttons on the disk once more, just as Steve pulled the knife from his boot.He thought perhaps he would slash the man’s throat, but decided to wait, slipping the knife under his leg where he knelt. He looked up at Rollins as the man pulled off the disk, leaving only the little metal counterpart on his temple. The man had not noticed Steve had the knife and Steve almost relaxed with relief, until the man ran his hand through Steve’s hair once more, revolted at what he had said to Rollins; what the profile program had made him say. It was almost worse than the imprint.

It would be worse than the imprint, he realized.

“I think I’d rather fuck you like this, pet.” Steve turned away as Rollins stood, trembling once more and hating himself for it. “Now, why don’t you just wait here.”

Rollins walked away and out of the cell, leaving Steve alone.

* * *

For a moment, he was still but then, as he tried to gather his wits about him, Sentinel felt something deep within his mind, visceral. It told him that he was not supposed to be here — Steve nearly rolled his eyes at that basic train of thought — and it told him that he had to get back _home_. The words ‘receiving base’ flitted across his mind, but it meant nothing.

He thought maybe he should try and get back to Bucky. That was home.

He had the knife. His mind told him that if he couldn’t pull it off, he would be better off dead.

Steve balked at that idea, terrified even more than the fear from Rollins’ programs at his temple had made him, but the certainty of it made Sentinel feel disturbingly at peace.

He looked around, glancing at his feet behind him. Looking at the cuffs he thought that he might have been strong enough to pull them from the floor, or possibly break the chain, but with the way his arm was right now, he would not be able to get the leverage.

_“Maybe we’ll just cut it off. You can match your boyfriend… a matched set. Now there’s something I can get behind…”_

Pierce had said that. Sentinel had absorbed that information easily, but Steve was horrified. It made sense, and it made absolutely no sense at all.

“No, no, wait, no—“

He reached for the knife he had hidden under his leg and stared at it in his hand for a moment before bringing it up to his shoulder. 

“Shit. No, no—“

He pressed it into his shoulder and let out a loud cry before biting his lip to stop the sound. He grunted as he started to move the knife a little bit at a time. He hit something wrong and screamed out again without thinking and the door opened once more.

“God damn it,” Rollins cried out. He and another Hydra agent ran into the room and wrestled the knife away from Steve. Steve got one good swipe in before he lost the knife and smirked up at Rollins and the blood dripping off of his arms. Rollins smirked back though and threw one solid punch at Steve, throwing up as far to the ground as the cuff around his arm would allow. He almost wished then he had finished cutting off his arm because then at least it would stop hurting.

“Got anything else, Cap?” Sentinel flinched away. “Oh pet. Shh, shh. ‘Whoso sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall his blood be shed.’ Shh. Settle down, pet.” He ran his hand through Sentinel’s hair once more, almost comforting, but mostly just unsettling. 

Steve rolled his eyes and looked away and after Rollins and the Hydra agent searched him for any other weapons. They left him alone in the cell once more, slowly being consumed by the things forced onto Steve by the disk at his temple. He touched it gingerly. He already knew he could not remove it himself.

His hand was tingly and numb from being held over his head for so long. Now that he was alone he could feel it more clearly. He almost welcomed the distraction if only to save himself from the thoughts and memories in his mind.

He missed Bucky.

He waited.

* * *

His head was burning. Every blink made him see the room in a different way. The mission parameters from the profile ran through his mind; emotions ran through his mind. Everything was layering on top of one another and nothing made sense anymore.

And everything that Rollins had done to him was mixing with all the memories he had not yet recovered. But nothing made sense. Grief and Sam Wilson, a honeypot mission and the USO tour, happiness and freezing cold and the time he and Bucky couldn’t save a stray cat from dying when they were kids; they had both been crying on the stoop when Steve’s mother came back from her shift at the hospital.

For a while he was alone, hanging by his arm — he thought he could almost feel the tendons and muscles tearing with every minute shift of his body, with every breath in his lungs. He could hear Rollins talking quietly outside of the cell. And then another voice. A voice he knew.

The door opened and Agent Rumlow stepped inside.

It did not look like Agent Rumlow, but the pull of the thread deep in Sentinel’s core told him otherwise. He was burnt, badly, but still walking. He should not be walking with wounds like that, and there he was standing and moving towards Sentinel. His steps were slow, deliberate to hide the obvious pain he was in, or maybe he was not so badly hurt as he looked.

Sentinel was a super soldier. Sentinel had a metal disk that made him believe he was another person, that he was happy, that he was dying, that he was blind. Sentinel was forced into a chair that took his memories from him. What else could Hydra do? Why was he even surprised that Rumlow was back from the dead? Hydra made the impossible happen. 

Sentinel tried not to be scared. He swallowed and kept Rumlow in his line of sight, but dared not meet his eyes.

“Hey there, pretty boy.” Sentinel did not respond, staring up at the man, at his shoulder. His heart was pounding even harder now. This was how he was going to die. He could not feel the pull of the imprint again. He would be too scared and his heart would just give out inside of him. “I hear you’ve been having fun with Jack. But you haven’t been a very good boy.” Rumlow poked him at the healing gash at his shoulder and he bit back a hiss of pain.

Steve wished he had kept the knife. In another world he would probably not feel comfortable stabbing a man as injured as Rumlow was, but this was not that world. All he could do was try his hardest not to meet Rumlow’s eyes.

Rumlow took him by the hair and brought his face close to Steve’s. Steve almost closed his eyes in time, but it was too late, and there it was; _the imprint_. He wanted to scream but he was too scared. It was not as strong as it had been, but it was there, it was pulling him. He could hardly recognize Rumlow, but he knew those eyes. He knew what the man could make him do.

Sentinel wanted to beg. Steve would not let him.

“So,” Rumlow hummed. “What are we going to do with you, pretty boy?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this chapter was super hard to write, but I'm super proud of the way the Sentinel/Steve stuff is developing. I like to think of it as Sentinel showing up when Steve is scared; almost like a split personality brought on by stress, but not exactly (clearly not exactly, but I digress). 
> 
> I'm Betsy! I [tumbl](http://batraquomancy.tumblr.com/) and talk about my personal life too much! And if you tumbl and want to share this story, use [this link here](http://batraquomancy.tumblr.com/post/124114361678)!
> 
> Lots of love to you all. Sorry for the late update (trying for an every monday thing, but I dropped the ball this time... I've been busy, busy).


	31. Chapter 31

“Get him on his back,” Rumlow told three of the other Hydra agents as they stepped in the cell, already moving to manhandle Steve to the floor. “Take off his clothes.”

Steve tried to fight back, both against the agents and against Sentinel inside of him who became paralyzed with fear. They got him on his back after gaining the upper hand with a swift blow to his bad shoulder. His hands were above his head, trapped on the floor. Rollins pressed a button on the remote for the collar and his neck stuck down to the ground, holding him still.

He had been in this position before. His mind flashed to Pierce, to the knives.

He did not allow himself to scream.

He missed Bucky.

* * *

“It’s useless,” Winter whispered. Bucky whispered. “I can’t narrow it down.”

He was staring at the glowing map. There were dozens of dots, dozens of potential places Steve could be in New York alone. Every minute was another minute Steve was at their mercy. He was failing Steve so terribly.

“James, you just need to focus,” Natalia said next to him quietly in Russian.

“I can’t…”

“You know where they took him. Just think.”

“I can’t!”

He had not meant to yell. All the others in the room started and stared at him for a moment. The silence was awkward and heavy.

“Excuse me, may I offer some insight,” Jarvis’ voice said above them.

“Please do,” Tony said.

“According to the programing I have examined, Agent Romanoff is correct. Sergeant Barnes does know where they Hydra agents most likely will be—“

“But I don’t—“

“However he is unable to access this information without the proper stimulus.” Winter frowned as he stared up at the ceiling, listening.

“What do you mean?” Sam asked.

“Why would his programing tell him that he needs to get to a safe house if he is already somewhere safe?” Jarvis asked rhetorically.

“So if we make him feel unsafe, the programming will kick in and he can lead us to Steve.”

“That is my hypothesis.”

“How do we make him feel unsafe though?”

“Not unsafe,” Winter said softly, catching on. “Just outmatched. Enough so that I would need to retreat, rather than keep fighting.”

“Yeah but if you’re fighting you might start trying to kill us.”

“He can’t kill some of us…” Dr. Banner said softly. Winter stared. The underlying anger in the man still made him feel uncomfortable. He frowned at the doctor, uncertain as to what he was hinting at. He glanced between all of the people in the small conference room.

“I hate to say it—“ Tony started.

“But you’re going to get through it anyway,” Clint muttered.

“—but I think we have a plan. Though it should be me, and not Bruce in the ring, don’t you think?”

The others kept talking and Winter tuned them out, looking back once more at the glowing map.

He missed Steve.

* * *

_There had been too many close calls, too many moments where Steve or Bucky watched the other one almost die, usually holding them in their arms. Steve could not do it anymore, Bucky could not do it anymore. Bucky should have gone home, Steve told himself every day. He had done his part. Steve should still be selling bonds, Bucky would think. He had been safe then._

_The hotel in France did not have many beds so Steve and Bucky said they’d share. They shared a tent when they were out with the Howling Commandos, they shared a bed when they were kids, what difference did it make?_

_Bucky_ hated _how broad Steve was in the shoulders now because it made Steve think he had to stand between his friends and fire. Hated the way he got hurt and then it healed. Hated how he could jump across buildings, down from the trees and not break, because every time Bucky saw it his heart clenched in his chest and he wanted to scream. He hated being up high for sniping because it meant he could not stab anyone who got too close to Steve._

 _Steve_ hated _the way Bucky got so pale when injured, the way his skin grew cold even if it wasn’t a terrible blow. He hated that Bucky followed Steve into this fight, and he hated that sometimes he felt Bucky’s eyes on him when they should be on the mission. He hated knowing that Bucky would protect him, even if it meant risking his own life._

_They were both so scared, and for the first time in their lives, neither of them knew how to tell the other._

_Bucky started stripping down and Steve did the same. There was an uncomfortable, awkward silence between them. Steve stared at the wall ahead of him until he spared one quick glance over in Bucky’s direction. He froze, a gasp on his lips. Bucky had been shot a little over a week ago, a graze along his back._

_At the sound, Bucky turned and quirked an eyebrow. “What?”_

_“Your back.”_

_“What about it?”_

_“There’s— Bucky you were shot. Where’s the scar?”_

_Bucky’s mouth opened and closed a few times, as if he was trying to find the right words. He scoffed after a moment and turned away once more. Steve wanted to see him, wanted to look into his eyes. “Scar’s gone, that’s all.”_

_“Bullet wounds don’t go away that quick, Buck.”_

_“It was just a graze—“_

_“Bucky!”_

_Bucky ran a hand through his hair; “What does it matter? I’m better now.”_

_Steve’s eyes were inexplicably wet. Bucky was right, what did it matter? He wasn’t hurt anymore. “But you shouldn’t be better yet. It shouldn’t be completely gone!”_

_“Yeah, well maybe my body’s just kicked into gear so I can stay alive enough to keep you outta trouble.”_

_“Don’t— Bucky, don’t do that. Not now.”_

_“It’s not—“_

_Steve knew he was going to say it wasn’t a big deal and that made him want to scream. Steve would’ve said the same thing in his position. But this time Bucky couldn’t manage it, something was different and that left Steve even more frightened than before. Bucky looked scared, open, more vulnerable than Steve ever remembered him being in his whole life. Maybe it was the dark and quiet of the hotel room, or the fact that this was the first time they had been alone together since Steve had pulled him off of Zola’s table—_

_“Zola,” Steve whispered. “Oh god, Zola did this.”_

_After a heavy moment, Bucky nodded. “I don’t know what he did, Steve.” His voice was wet, trembling. Steve’s heart was breaking as he watched. “Everything from then is jumbled together. But I’m not me anymore. I’m not— I heal too quick, my eyesight’s better and all my nightmares are about me being back there, me_ going _back there on my own. Steve, I don’t want to go back—“_

_Steve strode across the room and pulled Bucky into his arms. They were both crying now. Not out loud, but Steve’s face was wet as he pressed into Bucky’s hair, and he could feel Bucky’s face wet against his neck. Steve flinched a little and pulled Bucky in tighter when he recalled the lab where he had found Bucky. It was not fair. This shouldn’t’ve happened to them, to Bucky. Bucky deserved so much better._

_“You won’t go back. I won’t let you. I’d die first, I promise.”_

_“Don’t— don’t say that. I can’t lose you.”_

_“I can’t lose you again.”_

_“We need to run,” Bucky whispered. “We can’t keep doing this.”_

_“We can’t run, Buck. You know we can’t.”_

_“I know, I just— I can’t lose you, you can’t lose me. What else is there to do? We’re going to die out here, Stevie.”_

_“No one’s dying. Please, god, no one’s dying.”_

_Bucky pulled back and their eyes met. Steve was not thinking. Steve was thinking too much. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to Bucky’s._

_And then Bucky kissed back._

_It felt so right. This was it. This was all he needed; more than food, than water, than oxygen. It felt_ so right _. This was home, this was what he had been missing for so, so long. He could smell Mrs. Barnes’ cinnamon cookies and the docks in Brooklyn. His heart hammered in his chest. Elation, euphoria, joy. His hands ran though Bucky’s hair, and Bucky pulled him in close by the hips, stepping back into the wall behind him. Steve stopped him from hitting the wall too hard, gently guiding him, cradling the back of his head, protecting it from the unworthy, too-hard wall. Wave after wave o feeling flooded him, pooling in his core, warming his whole body, shivering into his skin like electricity._

_“Bucky…” he whispered softly when they pulled apart. He met Bucky’s blue, blue eyes. His pupils were blown wide, and he looked scared, so scared. Steve wanted to wipe away the fear from his face. He never wanted Bucky to be scared again, for as long as he lived he would fight for that. He knew it then, looking into Bucky’s eyes._

_Bucky’s hand moved upwards, and stroked Steve’s face. It felt like he was seeing Steve for the first time, but it was Steve. He had changed, of course, but his face was still the same, still perfect. His nose still bent out of shape from the time Tommy Jenkins broke it in a school yard fight, and his lips still the same, perfect pink against his skin. And his eyes? Bucky could drown in those eyes._

_Steve_ wanted _so very, very much. The clean panes of Bucky’s chest in front of him now made his mouth water. He cupped Bucky’s neck and kissed him once more, hands roaming over his body. Bucky moaned into it, which sent a wave of sensation through Steve’s body. Bucky walked them both towards the bed and they fell down onto it._

 _Bucky_ wanted. _He had been wanting Steve for so, so long and he had not even realized it. Now that he had him here, it was different though. They sat on the bed and pushed Steve’s undershirt off together, exposing his chest. Bucky kissed him again, Bucky could kiss him for the rest of his life. He stuttered a little when Steve pulled Bucky down on top of him, when Steve’s hands ran along the sensitive skin under the hem of his pants, moaning into Steve’s mouth._

_By some miracle, they both managed to get their pants off, and suddenly they were naked, lying on the bed, pressed flush together, Bucky on top of Steve once more, connected at the mouth, by the skin, in their souls. Steve’s legs parted, bringing Bucky impossibly closer, bracketed and safe between his thighs. They were grinding together, closer than they had ever been before in all their years. Steve took Bucky by the wrist and brought his hand down between Steve’s legs._

_Bucky froze and met Steve’s eye. They both knew what this meant. They had lived in the queer part of Brooklyn, barely scraping by, exposed to queens and fairies and they were okay with it. They never did anything like that, but they were okay with it. Buck was okay with it. Hell, the idea of it was enough that he was ready to explode. It was just—_

_“Steve?”_

_“I want this. I want you.”_

_Bucky blinked. “Oh… I thought—“_

_“What?”_

_“Well, you’re bigger than me now. I just sorta assumed it’d be the other way around.”_

_Steve bit his lip to keep from grinning. “It’s like Sister Catherine always said, ‘To assume makes an ass outta you and me.’”_

_Bucky laughed then, and some great barrier had been broken between them. “You fucking punk.”_

_“You’re the one fucking here, Buck.”_

_“Oh god, I guess I am.”_

_They were quiet for a moment, just staring at each other. “I want it,” Steve finally whispered. “I really want it, Buck. I want you.”_

_“Do you have slick?”_

_“There’s vaseline in my kit.”_

_Bucky moaned and chuckled, “It’s so far away…”_

_“Stay here.”_

_Steve got up, naked as the day he was born and felt Bucky’s eyes on him as he stepped across the small hotel room, bending over to dig through his bag. Bucky moaned once again and Steve startled, curling around. “Sorry.”_

_“Don’t be sorry. It’s a good view.”_

_“Asshole.”_

_“Yeah. That’s kinda the idea.”_

_Steve snorted, finding the vaseline and bringing it back to Bucky. He stood at the side of the bed and they were staring at each other again. Steve’s hand shook as he passed the small jar over._

_“We don’t have to do this,” Bucky whispered._

_“When will we get another chance?”_

_“That shouldn’t be why we do this.”_

_“I know. That’s not why I want this.”_

_“Why do you want this?”_

_“I want you. I want to go home. You’re home.”_

_He kissed Bucky again and they stopped speaking. Bucky was so gentle when he guided Steve down onto his back, as he opened the jar with a trembling hand. He kissed Steve down his body, his neck, his chest, his stomach. Steve was trembling underneath him, and a part of Bucky wondered if they could even do this at all they were earthquake wild under their skin. But then they kissed once more, and it felt like the world clicked into place. They were doing this. This was happening, and they both wanted it so, so much. Steve was right, it was like coming home._

_Bucky almost stopped entirely when Steve winced at the slow intrusion of his fingers until Steve grabbed his wrist and kept him from pulling his hand away. His lip trembled as they kissed, as he pulled Bucky in close, hips canting up in time with Bucky’s hand._

_It hurt, it was tight. It was perfect._

_Bucky was so terrified when he finally pressed into Steve. He hated the way Steve’s eyes watered at the edges and the stretch, the way a tear fell from his eye down the side of his face. But then Bucky pressed in at the right angle and the noise Steve made, the whispered ‘do that again’ made it worth it._

_And they kissed. Steve wondered if he’d ever be able to be in the same room as Bucky now that he knew what kissing him felt like, what_ this, _felt like. It was perfect, it was so, so, so perfect._

_When they were finished, sweating and still trembling and wrapped in each other’s arms on the bed, it was still perfect; not enough but still so perfect. Steve was finally breathing. Steve finally had a name for that warm feeling that pooled in his stomach; the feeling was James Barnes, was Bucky. The feeling was the way Bucky pressed his face into the crook of Steve’s neck and whispered things into his skin. The feeling was the way his legs were trembling as he came back down from that high, serene place he had reached under Bucky’s body. Even the way the sheets felt against their skin was Bucky, was James Barnes, was the way they fit together._

_Steve would never lose him again. He promised himself that in that moment. He knew if he lost Bucky, he would follow shortly after. It was overwrought, it was dramatic, but Steve could not tamp down the certainty._

_“I missed you,” Steve finally whispered. “When you were gone.”_

_“I missed you too. God, I missed you so much.”_

_“Do you still want to run away?”_

_“I want to be next to you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”_

_“Okay, Buck. That’s what I want too.”_

_“When the war is over we’re doing this every day,” Bucky said lightly._

_“Agreed.”_

_They smiled at each other. Bucky pushed some hair off of Steve’s brow gently with his left hand. His fingers were warm against Steve’s skin. This felt so right._

_“Think you can sleep, Stevie?”_

_“Yeah. You?”_

_“Yeah. It’s easier when…”_

When we’re next to each other _, Steve knew what Bucky meant. He nodded and curled up a little closer. He felt small still in Bucky’s arms, though he had no right to. Bucky pulled the sheets up and over their bodies, pressing one more kiss against Steve’s forehead. They both were relaxed in a way they had never been before. That night was the best night’s sleep they had had since they were children._

_In the following weeks and months they fooled around, but never like this. A quick handjob or suck job was all they had time for, all they could risk. If either of them had known they would have done more to make that night count._

_That was the first and last time they made love._

* * *

The Iron Man suit was a challenge. Winter dodged and ducked and punched wildly with his metal arm. He thought he could short-circuit the suit, make it useless, but he could not get close enough.

Bucky let Tony Stark punch him once, twice, three times before he fought back; desperately trying to relax enough to let his programming take over. Blood from his nose dripped into his mouth.

He missed Steve.

He remembered their first time together in those odd minutes as he forced himself to revert back to whatever Hydra had put inside of his head. He missed Steve so damned much. He missed Sentinel. He was so exhausted, he had been fighting for so long, and the memory did not even hurt as it burned its way out from the deepest parts of Winter’s brain.

“This isn’t working,” Dr. Banner said.

“By all means, come join me, Bruce.”

Winter kept Tony Stark in his sights because Dr. Banner really could not be a threat, no matter what they said; which was a mistake — a wonderful mistake. When the large, green monster roared behind him, Winter knew this would be it. He kept darting and weaving through the ‘Hulk-proof’ room — and god, that made sense now more than it had when he first stepped in — and could feel the surge of adrenaline coursing through him.

Something clicked and he fought back long enough to escape. He started running and did not stop. He did not know where he was going, but he knew Steve was going to be there. He knew the asset retrieval team was waiting for him. He found he did not care. He just missed Steve too much.

The plan was in motion. He was going to find Steve. He was going to the safe house.

He missed Steve so, so much.

* * *

Sentinel lay on the cold ground of the cell, naked, arms cuffed to the floor still, but his neck blessedly free, curled in on himself as best as he could. Silent tears ran down his face, but he had not allowed himself to scream when Rumlow and Rollins—

He needed to go back into the chair. He needed to be wiped. Not just to get rid of the terrible feeling of hands on his body, but he knew, deep down, that what Rollins had done to him was breaking his mind. How long would it be before he completely gave up? Before his brain could not process and heal anymore and he just let go, and let the pain win. Would he foam at the mouth? Would he die?

Did he care at this point?

He needed to be wiped. He needed base programming. He needed to go home.

He started losing himself in memories. There was nothing else he could do. His mind was burning with the implanted feelings and pain and programs from the disk.

He whimpered when Rollins pressed the disk to his face, flinched when Rollins took away his sight once more, leaving him in the cell blind and cold. The world was navy and terrible and he was so, so cold. He heard the men leave and the cell door close behind him. And he missed Winter. He missed Bucky. He wanted to go home.

He wanted to scream when he realized what he was remembering. His first and last time with Bucky. He bit back a sob alone in the cell, hating his brain then, hating Hydra so desperately then. Hating the universe for bringing _that_ to the front of his mind. It was a perfect memory and now it was ruined after Rumlow and Rollins—

As if squeezing his eyes shut and curling even more in on himself would stop the memory, would stop him thinking about what they had _done to him_ , would stop the pain, would stop everything. Sentinel wanted to scream, but he couldn’t.

With his vision taken away from him he could feel everything so much more. The cold floor of the cell, the cruel bite of the cuffs at his wrists, the burning ache in his shoulder, in his head, the blood drying between his legs. He could not keep from crying, even as Steve inside of him told him to stop, told him to stop showing how weak he was. He was so scared. He felt that more than anything else. Everything was navy and he was drowning in it.

He needed to be wiped. He didn’t want to die.

He just wanted to go home. He didn’t want to die without seeing Bucky. Even if it was just one last time.

He missed Bucky.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter feels a little threadbare. If I waited another few days I could've beefed it up, but I kind of wanted to post it, and let you guys have at it (my post on every Monday schedule is strict and I won't flub it again!).
> 
> Anyway, _angst._ Whoops. I got as close as I could to 'explicit' without being explicit, and I'm really sorry/not sorry.
> 
> I'm Betsy! I [tumbl](http://batraquomancy.tumblr.com/) and talk about my personal life too much! And if you tumbl and want to share this story, use [this link here](http://batraquomancy.tumblr.com/post/124114361678)!


	32. Chapter 32

Things were… strange. Sentinel, Steve had no other words to describe it. He was blind, but was seeing things flashing before his eyes; mhemories made more vivid, feelings given color, thoughts inconsistent, ephemeral and sharp all at once. Nothing made sense.

His mind was not his.

Songs came to mind. It was… strange. He was terrified and injured, and was having trouble breathing, but the odd lyric would float through his head, which would lead his mind down another path when a word or phrase reminded him of something he did not know he knew.

The burning from the returning memories never faded; he merely grew used to it. If his mind went down a darker string of memories he focused on the pain, both in his head and his body to pull himself away from it.

He had no idea how long he had been in the cell. He couldn’t see. Things were losing meaning.

_“I’m looking over a four leaf clover I overlooked before…”_

He was very cold. He wouldn’t tell anyone though. Winter told him that he had to keep that to himself. He would take it to the grave.

He couldn’t remember his name. He _knew_ it, but it wasn’t his. It did not make sense. He wasn’t Steve or even Sentinel. He was floating. He was a honeypot waiting for his mark, he was a vessel for pain, he was a day at Coney Island. Someone was holding his hand way up high on a ferris wheel.

He dreamed a little. With his vision taken away, lying prone and exhausted on the floor, falling into a half-sleep was not entirely unexpected. Bucky said the dreams would get worse before they got better. He dreamed of Bucky. But it wasn’t Bucky, it was flashes, it was pain. It was someone holding his hand, and it was something deep, deep within him. A well of hurt and longing that extended beyond the reaches of his mind. It didn’t make sense.

It was so, so strange…

It hurt.

_“One leaf is sunshine, the second is rain.”_

His face was wet. He realized he was crying, and he kept telling himself to stop — stop crying, stop hurting, stop breathing. It was raining. It was snowing, the train was moving too fast. He was screaming. He bit his lip so hard he could taste metallic blood on his tongue.

That brought him back to the present for a moment. The taste of blood.

That’s what Bucky’s lips tasted like.

_“Third is the roses that grow in the lane.”_

He wished Bucky was here.

* * *

_“Stevie, Stevie wake up. Wake up, Stevie!” Bucky was on his bed. Steve blinked up at him. He looked so young. He was a child with a metal arm. “We’re going to Coney Island with my cousins! Come on! Wake up!”_

_“What time is it?”_

_“Five!”_

_“In the morning?!”_

_“Wake up!”_

_“How’d you even get in?”_

_“I couldn’t sleep. I wanted to see you.”_

_“But… how_ did _you get in?”_

_“You keep the spare key under the brick. Your mom was heading out for an early shift anyway and gave me some toast. She told me to let you sleep, but that was an hour ago.”_

_Steve groaned. “Coney Island doesn’t open until eleven, anyway, Buck.”_

_“Yeah, well I missed you.”_

_“I’m right here.”_

_“What do you want to do first? I wanna ride the Cyclone!”_

_Steve snorted and pulled Bucky down onto the bed by the collar. He fell next to Steve and went quiet as Steve expertly threw the blanket back over both of them and put his hand on Bucky’s mouth._

_“I wanna sleep. Then we’ll go on the Cyclone.”_

_Bucky licked his hand. Steve groaned and shoved his head under his pillow. Thankfully, Bucky stopped talking and Steve drifted, warmer now with the second body in the bed. It was only a half-sleep. He was still getting over a cold, and was exhausted and stuffy. When he woke up the next time, the two of them were curled close together, and Bucky was snoring lightly, the morning light glinting off of his metal arm, his hair too long._

_Steve smiled and went back to sleep for just a little longer._

* * *

Bucky knew the Widow was tracking him. He was screaming inside not to do anything too evasive. He could shake her off, he knew that, but he did not want to, not this time. Still, it was hard to fight his most base instincts; the programming that told him not to endanger the Hydra safe house.

It was like fighting the instinct to breathe, like fighting the beat of his heart.

God, he hoped Widow was as good as he thought she was. 

He had never been to this safe house, he realized as he slowed down in the alley. He did not know the layout, or even how many people were there. He opened the door and stepped inside.

There were men inside, and he glared. That was the easiest thing to do. They let him pass. It was a gamble, he knew. They should have walked him to the technicians, to the handlers. He was grateful he was so frightening. When he was out of their line of sight he broke into a run, completely lost, desperately searching for where they were keeping Steve.

He could not help but grin, feral and mean when he heard the distinct sound of gunshots through a silencer behind him. The Widow hadn’t lost him. He knew now that there was only a few minutes left until the fighting broke out completely. He had to find Steve.

Bucky had to circle back a few times, coming up on dead ends over and over. He was frustrated, frantic when something fell lightly behind him. He turned with his knife drawn to see familiar red hair.

“Tony,” Natalia said into her earpiece. “Any luck finding Steve?”

“I think he’s sub-level,” Stark’s voice said out through a small device on her wrist. “Down the stairs three flights, there’s more than a few reinforced rooms.”

Bucky sighed and nodded at her before darting off. She did not follow, though he thought he might have heard Barton’s voice through the device on her wrist say something along the lines of, “Oh shit… hi.”

Then there was an explosion, and Bucky ran faster. The fighting began in earnest behind him, but Bucky did not care. All he wanted was to find Steve. Nothing else mattered.

* * *

He flinched when he heard the sound of the cell door opening. He was not ready for Rollins or Rumlow again. He would never be ready for them. He could not even remember what they looked like, only that they brought pain with them, and he would never, never be able to fight it. The sound of the door opening could only mean more pain.

The steps towards him were slow and he tried not to react, but he was certain he was failing. He was shaking.

He wanted to see and could not bear the thought of seeing. What would their faces look like when they hurt him again?

He would not scream, he would not beg. A little soul inside of him told him this was unacceptable. He would not give Rumlow these things. He would not give him the satisfaction.

He wanted to scream, he wanted to beg. He wanted the chair. It hurt so badly, and he was terrified, and sick, and trembling. He wanted the feeling of hands over his skin to go away. He _needed_ it to go away. He could not breathe he was so sick with it. Rollins and Rumlow’s hands on his skin was all he could feel, besides the cold, and it was not fair.

He flinched when fingers touched him on the face.

“Steve?” a voice whispered.

He knew that voice and didn’t know that voice, and he knew this name and didn’t know that name, and his head hurt, and it was not fair.

“Steve? Can you look at me?” He turned his head towards the sound of the voice, but it did not matter. He _could not_ look at the person speaking to him. He could not see. “What’s wrong? Steve, tell me what’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer. Steve sounded familiar, and not familiar and that was not fair either.

“Steve, can you hear me?” 

He could hear fine. There was something going on outside of the door, and Steve grew even more tense.

“It’s Winter. It’s me.” The man paused. “It’s… Bucky.”

He knew that name. Hew thought it meant being warm. Winter meant being warm. Bucky meant even more.

“Bucky?” he whispered.

“Yeah, Steve. Yeah, Stevie, it’s me.”

The man’s voice sounded hurt, tired. He thought the man should not sound that way, he thought the man should be happier, but he did not know why. He hoped the man was not hurting the way he was. He would not wish that on anyone.

“Bucky, I can’t see. I can’t see…”

The man made a noise. He had no idea what the noise meant. The man should be happier, should not make noises like that. He knew that much. He did not know anything, but he knew that much.

“It’s okay. It’s alright. We’ll fix it. I promise we’ll fix it.”

“It hurts…”

“I’m here, Steve. I’m right here. I’m going to get you out of here. It won’t hurt anymore. I promise.”

The man took him by the hand, and that felt right, so, so right. He wished he could see the man.

_“No need explaining, the one remaining is somebody I adore.”_

* * *

They had hurt him. They had hurt him so badly, Bucky could not even see straight, could barely think. He was never going to leave Steve’s side again, but a part of him wanted to kill everyone at the sight of Steve. When he had opened the door he thought he had come into someone else’s cell. There was no way Steve could look so bruised, bloody, beaten. 

Broken.

He had been too late and he wanted to die.

They had hurt Steve, and it was his fault. Bucky almost could not look at him. He stared at each mark on his skin, at the strange little disk at his temple, at the blood between his legs and he wanted to scream. He could not fix this. He had been too late.

It did not matter though, because they were together.

As Bucky lay down next to Steve he realized that things could go two ways.

The Avengers would lose. That was very probable. The base was large, and could hold many agents. He would have thought more had died in the destruction of the Triskilion or had been arrested. Or maybe Hydra was even bigger than he had let himself believe. Maybe there was no beating this monster.

They would hear the fighting grow faint, the gunshots less frequent until they finally stopped. There would be blood. Rollins would come in and see him there with Steve, and Bucky would not even be able to look at him.

“The chair is in Stark Tower,” he would whisper. “SHIELD brought it from Washington. Tony Stark was going to study it. I have memorized the security codes.”

He would be punished for leaving. In worse ways than they had punished Steve, perhaps. But he did not care. Steve was here, lying in front of him. That was all that mattered.

But they would separate them. Bucky knew that. He would be wiped, and Steve would be wiped and everything they knew would be taken away by the chair. What would they do to Steve? He realized now that Captain America was more than just an asset. He was something Hydra hated. Would they kill him? Would they program him wrong? Or would they just leave him like this? In pain, suffering, dying?

Or the Avengers would win. That was possible, wasn’t it? He would lie next to Steve until Natalia had killed all who stood in her way, brutal and vicious and sharp like she was. Stark and Banner would bring chaos down on this building. Sam Wilson and Clint Barton would fight hard as well. They might not even know it but they had vengeance in their hearts, especially when it came to Steve. They would die before surrendering. And they had already almost died fighting Hydra once, what’s a second time to soldiers like them?

They would hear the fighting grow faint, the gunshots less frequent until they finally stopped. If he had to venture a guess Sam or Natasha would be the first to open the door of the cell once more. They would take soft steps, but not get too close.

“Barnes?” Sam would ask softly, if it was Sam. Natalia would be silent until Bucky spoke.

“He needs help,” Bucky would whisper. “He said he can’t see. They did something. He’s hurt. He’s so hurt.” _I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please, please help him. Help us. I’ll do anything. We’re yours. I’ll kill for you, I’ll kill anyone for you if you can help him._

It would come out like a deluge and the very idea of it made Bucky almost, _almost_ wish the Avengers lost so he would not have to confess this to them. So they would not have to hear how scared he was.

* * *

The man was scared. Bucky was scared. Part of him wanted to ease away that fear, but it was hard when he was so, so scared too. What was worse is that now that the man was here, Rumlow and Rollins and any other Hydra agent could hurt him too.

God, please don’t let them hurt Bucky.

He could barely hear Bucky as he whispered to him, but it was nice to have the words there as well. Anything was better than the silence from before. It kept him from going too far down the rabbit hole of his mind, getting lost in thoughts and emotions that were both his and not his. One thought was solid though.

Don’t let them hurt Bucky.

* * *

“We’ll go to Coney Island,” Bucky whispered. “You have never been, Sentinel, but Steve has. A long time ago. It is loud though, so we’ll have to go on a cloudy day when it’s not as crowded. We held hands on the Ferris Wheel, do you remember? I said it was because I was scared of heights, but I just wanted to hold your hand, Steve.”

“You’re holding my hand now.”

“I am. I won’t let go again. I won’t ever let go.”

Steve blinked. “Have you seen Titanic?”

Bucky blinked too. He wasn’t sure how to respond. “No. I haven’t,” he finally said.

“I didn’t like it. It was hogwash.” Bucky smiled but didn’t say anything. That was Steve. _Hogwash_. “They said that. In the movie. ‘I’ll never let go.’”

His face was growing wet with tears. Bucky wiped them away with his thumb. An explosion went off outside of the cell. 

“I don’t want to die, Winter. I don’t—“

Bucky’s blood ran cold. “What? You’re not going to die.”

_God you can’t die. God no. Please help me, somebody help me._

“I need the chair,” Steve said.

“You’re okay. You’re fine. You’ll be fine.”

“I need the chair, please—“

He had been so scared of the chair before. Bucky was glad then he could not see; he was certain his face was painted with grief. “We’ll fix you, Steve. I promise.”

“Please… it hurts.”

“I know. I’m sorry. It’ll be over soon.”

Steve started mumbling. At first Bucky couldn’t make out the words. 

_“…over a four leafed clover I overlooked before.”_

* * *

He, Steve —his name was Steve; that’s what Bucky kept saying and it fit like a well-loved shirt over him — could not piece his thoughts together. Bucky said they’d fix him but he was not sure it would happen in time.

_“Wake up, Stevie. We’re going to Coney Island.”_

“Wake up, Stevie,” he whispered. He was shaking so, so badly. “We’re going to Coney Island.”

“That’s right,” Bucky said. “We’ll go to Coney Island.”

 _“Wake up, Stevie._ ”

“Wake up, Stevie,” he said again.

“It’s okay, Stevie. It’s okay. You’re okay. I’m right here and we’re going to be okay, I promise. Please, I promise. We’ll go to Coney Island.”

* * *

The fighting grew faint. Bucky slid even closer to Steve, pulling him into his chest. He looked at the disk on his temple and frowned and _hated_. Steve shuddered. His skin was cold to the touch.

Sentinel did not like being cold.

And he was foolish enough to trust a man named Winter.

Bucky waited for the door of the cell to open. Whoever was on the other side would determine what was going to happen to him and Steve. He did not care, not really. As long as they were together.

Sentinel was so cold. He would catch the influenza and Sarah Rogers would tan Bucky’s hide if that happened. But she wouldn’t. They would frown together, Sarah would make Bucky fetch the priest if things turned ill. She would try and keep Bucky from sleeping in the bed next to Steve, lest he catch it too, but would fail and give in.

They would lie next to each other until the storm passed.

The fighting was done. There were no sounds outside the door.

“I don’t want to die,” Steve murmured again. His eyes had fluttered closed and he was pale; there was a sheen of sweat on his brow.

“I don’t want you to die either. I don’t want either of us to die.” _I just got you back._

“Please, Winter. It hurts.”

Bucky’s eyes were stinging. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“I wish I could see you.”

 _“I wish I could see you…”_ Bucky remembered then. The cold swiss winter, the dark night. Steve hadn’t been able to see him then either. He remembered what had happened. He remembered what they had said to each other and it felt like a breath of air was finally allowed to reach his lungs.

“I love you, Steve.”

Steve was crying. Bucky hated to see him so scared, so broken. He was flashing through memories, Bucky could see the hurt in his face.

“I love you too, Bucky. I’ve loved you since before I knew your name.”

_I’ve loved you since before I knew your name too._

He held Steve close and waited for whoever was going to come through the door to come.

He knew that song. He started to hum, murmuring the words into the air between them.

_“I’m looking over a four leaf clover I overlooked before. One leaf is sunshine, the second is rain. Third is the roses that grow in the lane. No need explaining the one remaining is somebody I adore…”_

Their words meshed together; _“I’m looking over a four leaf clover I over looked before.”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're coming close to the end, kiddies... oh nelly! Pretty sure it's going to end at chapter 34! Isn't this exciting!?
> 
> Also, I apparently have no idea how to depict mental trauma, and resorted to song lyrics. I'm hoping this chapter didn't come off as stupid, but I genuinely can't tell anymore.
> 
> I'm Betsy! I [tumbl](http://batraquomancy.tumblr.com/) and don't have a corporeal form! And if you tumbl (corporeal form or otherwise!) and want to share this story, use [this link here](http://batraquomancy.tumblr.com/post/124114361678)!


	33. Chapter 33

Sam Wilson wiped sweat from his brow and took a deep, steadying breath. He looked around. The fighting had grown quiet. Stark in the Iron Man suit shot one last Hydra goon with his repulser beam and lifted the visor of his helmet up.

“Did we win?”

“I think so,” Sam replied.

“That’s neat. That’s super neat.”

Sam snorted and looked around. “Got a location on Barnes?”

“Downstairs, third door to the right sir,” Jarvis’s voice said through Tony’s suit.

“I’m gonna find Bruciepoo and do a lullaby. I’ll send any of our assassins your way, alright?”

Sam nodded and made his way down the stairs slowly. He was not sure what he was going to see. He found the door Jarvis had said. It was open a crack and Sam could hear voices talking very quietly. Steve and Bucky. At least Barnes had found him.

Still, Sam’s hand hovered in front of the door. He could push it open easily, step in, start triaging any damage Steve had sustained. _No_ , wounds, that had been inflicted on Steve. He wasn’t a robot or an asset. He wasn’t even a super soldier right now, he was a victim. He was a brother in arms that needed help, and that’s what Sam did. Sam had been helping Steve since they met.

So why was he so scared to go inside? Was it because Barnes was there? Sure, Barnes was terrifying, but so was Natasha. Was it because he did not know what he was going to see when he opened the door? Possibly. He had seen plenty on his tours in the Middle East. He had seen more than enough. Hydra was evil, but part of Sam thought that there was only so much evil in the world; there was only so much they could do to Steve, and most likely, whatever he saw would not surprise him, at least not deep down. He’d hate to see it, but evil did not surprise him anymore. He would not let it surprise him anymore.

Was it because this was Captain America? This was Steve Rogers?

Yes.

It wasn’t a hero worship thing. Or it was just a little, but that was something Sam could easily set aside. He stopped hero-worshiping Captain America when the jerk started lapping him on his runs. Captain America was a total dork, and the entire world had no idea. And Steve Rogers? Sam wanted to bet that Steve’s smile could light up a room, only he had never seen the full effect of it. Steve was sad when they met, and Steve deserved better.

Steve Rogers did not deserve this.

Neither did Barnes for that matter.

He could hear the two of them talking quietly. Barnes was terrified, voice trembling and Steve was lost and shaky. Sam heard them singing a little bit, an old song his grandmother used to sing and it hurt him somewhere deep in his core.

Sam was terribly angry; terribly sad. He had to stop himself from clenching his hands into fists as he stood in front of the door.

What the fuck had happened? Why had it happened to them? To Steve and Bucky? They deserved so much better. Hadn’t they suffered enough? Sam thought things were going to get better when the news hit that Steve Rogers had been found, but it had only gotten worse, crazy, impossible. Aliens for Christ’s sake, and now Hydra? And Steve. They had _hurt_ Steve, taken his memories. He had already been through so much. He had already lost so much. It was not fair, and Sam could not wrap his head around how terribly cruel it was. How impossibly cruel it was.

He had taken out a lot of anger on Hydra. He thought it would help, but he still felt like he was drowning in it.

He pushed the door open.

The two men were lying on the ground, facing each other. Steve was naked, covered in bruises and blood and it was obvious they had—

Steve had grown tense at the sound of the door opening, and Barnes turned fast towards him, gun drawn, finger on the trigger, ready to kill before realizing it was Sam.

But Steve was not looking at the door. He stared straight ahead, unseeing.

There was something metal on his temple.

“It’s over,” Sam said quietly. The two men did not respond. “…Barnes?”

There was a small noise and Sam took a step closer and heard it more clearly. They were crying, they were both crying. It was not loud, but neither of them could keep it in any longer. Sam did not know whether to find someone else to murder with his bare hands or cry with them. He stepped closer and knelt down behind Steve on his other side.

“How is he?” he asked Bucky.

“He can’t see— they— I can’t—“

“Alright, it’s okay. I’m here, you just hold onto him, okay Buck?” Sam tried to keep his voice steady. “I’m going to touch you, okay Steve? Just gonna take a look at the damage.”

Steve grew even more impossibly tense.

“It’s Sam, Stevie. Sam Wilson, remember?”

What if the metal disk had taken that too? Sam would not scream. Sam would not find any of the Hydra prisoners they left alive and tear them apart. He would not let himself do that, no matter how badly he wanted to.

Steve whispered something and Sam did not hear it. “What was that, Steve?” he asked softly.

“On— on your left…”

_Oh fuck…_

“Yeah,” Sam replied, his voice wet in his throat. “Yeah, running man, that’s right.”

“He—he’s nice, right Winter?” Steve asked.

“Yeah, we love Sam,” Bucky replied. “He’s a good guy.”

“I was— I wanted— he’s nice, Buck. I was gonna— I was gonna ask him out…”

Bucky let out a small huff of breath, and met Sam’s eye. “Is that so?”

“There’s a place by my apartment and I— I thought— we’d eat— Natasha, she said— she bought me a shirt— dark blue. I was gonna wear it. She said it made my eyes look nice.”

Sam remembered that Steve had been a little twitchy when he met Sam at the VA offices. It made sense now. He didn’t know where to put his hands, he was shy. Sam wondered if Steve had asked him out where they would be now. Not in a relationship sort of way (that was clearly off the table), but in a ‘if he had been with me maybe he would not have been captured sort of way.’ Sam felt almost guilty at that. He should have protected Steve. 

“Your eyes always look nice, Steve, don’t worry.”

Steve did not say anything else, falling quiet. Bucky was holding him steady and that was really the best thing Sam could hope for in this situation. He put a soft hand on Steve’s shoulder and forced himself to look at his wounds, to do his job.

Because otherwise Sam would be too angry to breathe.

* * *

No one ever thought of Sam Wilson as an angry man. He didn’t even think he was himself. His family had tiptoed around him when he had first come back from his tours in the Middle East. Being a soldier of any kind changed a man. They would not be surprised if Sam Wilson became an angry man, especially after Riley died. But he hadn’t. He had anger, he was upset at Riley’s death, and all the stupid, pointless things he had endured, but he was still Sam Wilson; he was still a generally optimistic man, if not a happy one. He had been so, so angry when Riley died, but he did not let it consume him.

But this anger was different. This anger he was almost willing to let consume him. The feeling churning within him was foreign, but he was growing unfortunately familiar with it these past few weeks. Ever since he came back from a run with a gorgeous red-haired assassin bleeding on his couch.

“Who did this to you?” he had asked softly.

“Hydra,” she whispered back. “They have Steve.”

That was the first and last time he had seen Natasha Romanoff scared. It was also the first time since Riley died that Sam’s whole body was filled with the burn of rage, only this time he did not know how to cool it off.

“What can I do to help?” he had asked.

“What _can_ you do?” She replied. Sam had gone to his desk and pulled out his file. As she read it over she nodded a little. “I can work with this.”

Less than an hour later, while Natasha was eating Sam’s pancakes a sandy-haired man walked into the kitchen through the back porch door uninvited and handed Natasha a bag, taking her fork out of her hand. “Oooh, pancakes. Got any coffee to go with that?” Clint Barton had asked, mouth full.

“Do you not know what’s going on, or are you always this irreverent?” Sam had snapped back, not realizing the sharp tone was leaving his mouth before it was too late. “Sorry. Coffee. You want cream?”

“Sam here’s part of the Falcon program,” Natasha said easily as she went through the small bag. Like it was normal. But then again, these guys were Avengers. Sam did not know what was normal. She had already set down two guns on the counter next to her orange juice and was clicking a hair straightener together, examining it.

Sam hoped this wasn’t too normal.

“We can work with that,” Clint said with an easy smile.

“That’s what I’m thinking.”

He had been angry when Clint and Natasha easily broke out his wings from the Air Base they were being kept in. He had been angry when they had captured Sitwell and interrogated him about Project Insight — and Jesus H. Christ, did the very idea of Project Insight alone made Sam want to commit murder. _How dare they, how dare they, how dare they!?_ He was angry when a man with a metal arm jumped onto his car and tore out the steering wheel and had been angry when a Hydra thug had the audacity to think Sam couldn’t beat him in a fist fight. He had been angry when he punched the man a few more times than absolutely necessary even though it hadn’t helped.

He had been angry when Natasha froze in the street, staring at the man with the metal arm, now without a mask. They were talking in Russian and he had been able to kick him away just in time as he raised a gun to her head. He had been angry when Natasha stopped fighting and when that motherfucker Jack Rollins broke three of Clint’s ribs before throwing them into the van.

Maria Hill and Nick Fury were an interesting twist though. He liked Maria, even before she took off the Strike Team helmet. She was angry too.

He was angry for Natasha’s sake when she found out Fury had not trusted her enough to let her know he was alive. And he was angry that none of them knew that Steve had been captured. He was angry that Nick Fury had not stopped this sooner.

He felt at peace when he flew around the rising helicarriers slotting in the new chips that Maria Hill had programmed. That part had been easy.

More fighting, a lot of screaming, Clint Barton talking to Natasha through the earpiece, saying something about the Lincoln Memorial and Steve. Everything was wrong, and Clint sounded scared and Sam was ready to kill the man called Rumlow, but didn’t get the chance.

He was a little happy when a building fell on him, Sam would admit to that. Usually he did not like to think such thoughts but damn, had the jackass deserved it.

He had been angry and tired at Lincoln Memorial, at the hospital, at the man with the metal arm that Steve was convinced was his dead best friend, but even he could not remember. He had been angry at Natasha and Clint, and he was angry at Barnes though he knew that was not justified; Barnes was just as much of a victim as Steve.

Sam was so fucking angry when Tony Stark suggested wiping Steve Rogers. Steve had seen the recording of their initial discussion, but had not seen the words he shared with Stark and Barton afterwards. All of his anger bubbled up and he screamed then, screamed at Stark so much that Barton had to pull him away from the smaller man.

Sam was angry. Sam was angry because he realized that Steve wasn’t. Steve _couldn’t_ be angry; they had burned that out of him, along with so much that made Steve _Steve._ Steve was so much smaller and different now from the man Sam had met in the park — and god, if that didn’t make Sam angry all over again. Someone had to be angry on Steve’s behalf, and hell, even on Bucky’s behalf and that was definitely a mantle Sam was willing to take up, even if he was not, by nature, by nurture, by whatever was dictating his actions deep within his subconscious, an angry man.

* * *

Sam was angry, and he was tired now as he sat behind Steve in the small cell. Steve would occasionally flinch and whimper at Sam’s touch before remembering who he was. Bucky was so soft, so careful with him. And Sam was angry on Bucky’s behalf too.

“It’s just Sam, remember? Sam Wilson.”

“Winter—“

“Remember? You met him running.”

Steve blinked and then softly said, “On your left?”

It was a question. The confusion was evident on his face, the memories weren’t working right.

“Yeah,” Sam murmured. His heart hurt. He felt like he could not breathe. “That’s right, running man. On your left. You kept lapping me, remember?”

“We were— there was a place by my apartment— I wanted—“

“It’s okay, Stevie,” Bucky murmured, running a hand through his hair.

“Did we go on a date? I wanted—“

“You were gonna ask me,” Sam said. “You never got around to it. You were a little busy with other stuff.”

“I should’ve asked you. I should’ve—“

“Then you wouldn’t have found Bucky. It’s okay, Steve. You’re doing okay.”

“I can’t see—“ his breathing grew fast and he was tense. “I can’t see, I can’t see! Take it off, please, the blindfold, take— He’s here! Please, oh god, please… There were knives, there were knives… help me, help—“

“Shh. Shhh… it’s okay, it’s okay. I’m here. It’s just you, me and Sam. You’re safe, you’re safe.” Bucky looked so fucking scared, just barely holding it together. “We’re safe, now. Sam won’t let anything happen to us. Right?”

He looked over at Sam, and it was… odd. Sam had thought he might have seen Bucky at his most vulnerable before, but now it was clear he had so much kept in check for so long, and he could not do it anymore. He was so, so scared. And what’s more, he was scared enough to trust Sam.

“I’d die first. I promise.”

Something released in Bucky. He gave Sam a nod and pulled Steve closer into him. Sam felt a little heavier, a little more responsible then. He was on call. He was on watch so Bucky could rest.

He could do that.

The trip back to the tower was a quiet one. Tony came in and cut the cuffs on Steve with a laser. Bucky never let go of Steve. Sam was the only one Bucky allowed to help carry Steve back to an SUV waiting outside the Hydra base. They had wrapped him in a blanket and covered his face because there were reporters already at the scene and Sam was ready to be angry about that too until a metal hand closed on his wrist and he remembered the task at hand.

Sam was so angry it hurt.

* * *

“You’re not putting him in that fucking chair, Stark,” Sam snapped in the conference room.

“He says he needs it. We can make it not hurt—“

“Bullshit. They fucked with his head, that’s all this is.”

“Yes, exactly! They fucked with his head, and I think this can help him!”

“But you don’t know! And wiping all his memories in the process? Barton, you saw how fucked up he was when he started remembering shit again, and you want to put him through that again. That’s implying he’ll remember a second time!”

“And Barnes said he didn’t want it to happen,” Bruce said softly.

“That was before. Now he’s with Steve. They think he needs to be wiped again.”

“Neither of them are exactly in the right frame of mind to make that kind of decision,” Natasha said.

“What, so Wilson is?”

“Yeah jackass,” Sam said. “Because it looks like Wilson is the only one who seems to remember that Steve was terrified of the chair, and Steve didn’t want to get wiped again until they put something on his head that fucked with his brain. Am I the only one who thinks they implanted that idea there?”

“I don’t think that,” Tony said. “Because, unlike you, I’m a genius. I looked at the tech and programming they had on that little disk. They never put the idea that he should be wiped in there. But they layered information on his brain, they literally scrambled his brain and hey, we’ve got this chair that we can use to fix the problem!”

“He’s not a problem, he’s a person!”

“Who is going to die unless we put him in the chair!”

“You just want to test it out, you sick fuck!”

“Sam—“

“He’s been through enough! Can’t you see he’s fucking been through enough!?”

“You think I don’t know that!? I’ve seen what they did to him, both physically and mentally—“

“They put someone else inside of him! And you think the only way to fix it is to the exact same thing—“

“I’m not going to do the same thing!”

“Bullshit!”

“Enough! Both of you!” Natasha shouted. Stark and Sam finally fell quiet, breathing heavy and glaring at each other.

“Natasha, you can’t let him do this. He can’t just create Steve’s old personality with coding, it has to come back—“

“God you stupid fucking—“ Stark scoffed. “I’m not just going to write a ‘Steve code’ and put it in!”

“What the fuck are you going to do then?” Barton asked.

“Are we done yelling? Can I show you what I have in mind?”

Everyone looked at Sam who finally sighed and threw his hands up. Jarvis projected something onto the screen.

“Look, the only thing that Steve’s brain really needs is to go back to the way it was before, to be allowed to write its neural pathways the way its supposed to, right? Right now, it’s not doing that, partially because Hydra never gave him the base programming, and partially because the wipe technology is inherently flawed—“

“All the more reason not to use it on him,” Sam said.”

“Wilson, I swear to god—“

Sam sighed and shut his mouth, gesturing for Tony to continue.

“I’m very smart, and I can fix what’s wrong with it. I do the coding, we use it on Steve and he goes back to a blank, but very much functioning slate. We can rewire him without doing damage. The memories aren’t gone, they’ve just been shoved down somewhere wrong. I do this with the chair and they’ll come back the way they’re meant to, and his brain will work the way its supposed to.”

“But the memories will still go away and have to come back again?”

“Yes, but I don’t think it’ll hurt when they reformulate. They’re not gone, it’s just his brain is disconnected from them.”

“But you don’t know if it’ll be pain-free—“

“I’m doing my best, Wilson.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“We’re working on it,” said Bruce softly.

They fell quiet. They were all exhausted from the fight. Worse than that, Sam, Clint and Natasha were still bruised and beaten from the fight in D.C. Now that Sam thought about it, he was pretty sure he had broken a rib at some point trying to rescue Steve. He could live with that. That was a small price to pay to have Steve and Bucky lying in the large bed in the guest suite, not crying anymore, not shaking anymore. Steve had been shaking so much, and just thinking about it Sam felt sick, felt angry all over again. He closed his eyes and leaned back in the conference chair.

He was just resting his eyes, he was sure of it, but he started at a small hand shaking his shoulder and looked up to see Pepper Potts standing next to him with a large Starbucks cup. The rest of the team were nursing their own cups, and there was pizza on the table in front of them. He had no idea when that had happened. He had completely missed it. He blinked and felt the warmth from the cup seep into his hand and forced himself to take a sip. Venti Vanilla Soy Latte, no foam. He blinked again.

“How in god’s name did you know my Starbucks drink?” he asked her softly.

“I’m clairvoyant,” she replied easily. Pepper was an impossible beacon of light. Sam almost felt bad that he was ready to tear her boyfriend apart with his bare hands.

“I told her,” Natasha said. Pepper stuck out her tongue at her across the table.

“Boo, come on Natalie.”

“But then how did _you_ know?” he asked, looking at Natasha now. He should’ve known she would just quirk her eyebrow and smirk.

The latte helped, the pizza helped. He felt a tiny bit more human. At least until he remembered why they were all gathered there. Tony and Bruce were talking quietly in the corner, biting into their pizza without looking.

“Who’s Steve’s next of kin?” Sam finally asked the room. “When he was working at SHIELD he had to have that listed, right?”

“He may not have listed anybody,” Clint said. “People who do Strike-work for SHIELD sometimes end up not being the kind of folk to have next of kins, if you know what I mean.”

“Jarvis, see what you can find,” Tony called up to the ceiling.

“According to the SHIELD database, Captain Rogers listed Natasha Romanoff as his next of kin.”

Natasha blinked. “Really?”

“Affirmative, ma’am.”

“That’s… weird,” Tony said after a moment.

“I think it’s sweet,” said Pepper carefully. “You guys are close, right?”

“I didn’t think we were _that_ close.”

“Nat, do you remember when you first came in? You latched onto me like a lamprey,” Clint said. “Steve was just doing the same thing with you.”

“But that means—“

“That means he’d want you to make the call about this,” said Bruce.

Natasha pursed her lips. “Right.”

She did not say anything, sitting contemplative and quiet for a moment. Sam bit his lip as he watched her. It was one of the rare times he could read emotions flitting over her features. Confusion, acceptance, concern, hope, fear. After a moment she stood up and wordlessly took her drink and walked out of the conference room. 

“What does that mean?” Tony asked.

“It means give her some time,” Clint replied, sipping his coffee and going back to look over the report he was working on for Fury.

That was the last thing Sam wanted to do. He stood up and chased her out, just barely catching the elevator door as it slid shut.

She rolled her eyes. “Come on, Wilson.”

They rode down in silence and ended up on the floor of the guest suite. They stepped into the dark apartment, and Natasha turned on a few lights as she walked by, before she sat down in one of the large leather chairs with a heavy sigh.

“Natasha—“ Sam started, but she held up a hand.

“I know what you’re going to say. I’m afraid you’re probably going to be disappointed.”

“You can’t seriously be thinking of putting him in that chair.”

“What if I am? Think you can stop me?”

“I’m not afraid of you. If I have to stop you—“

“I know you’re not. That’s why I like you so much.” Sam tried not to let himself preen at that. She smirked at him again before the smile fell. “Listen, I know Tony is an asshole, but he’s not an idiot. And beneath all that talk and overly manicured facial hair, there’s a real human being under there. I’ve seen him at his worst. Believe me when I say that he’s acting in what he believes is the most humane way possible. He wouldn’t do this if he didn’t think this would work.

“Just because he believes it—“

“I think he knows better than the rest of us what kind of situation Steve is really in, except for maybe James. He’s been pouring over that code since he got it. He’s gone through every scenario already, and is making up more just to make sure. I don’t think he’s going to hurt Steve.”

“But you can’t know.”

“But I do. He won’t let it hurt Steve. He'd die first."

Sam paused at that. It was not the kind of thing he expected to hear about Tony Stark, the playboy ex-weapons manufacturer. Though, to be fair, before all this happened, his only connection with Tony Stark was that the man had contributed a few thoughts into the design of the wings he used for the Falcon program, helped the initial engineers tweak some things. 

And, rumor has it, made the wings perfect. He fixed all the problems after being up for three days without sleeping, then for good measure fixed problems the engineers hadn’t even thought of.

But this was not a set of wings. This was Steve.

And Sam was still angry. Sitting here now in the warm light of the guest suite living room, he had nothing to turn that anger to, nowhere to channel it. Stark was the easy target.

“What if it doesn’t work?” he asked softly.

“What if it does?”

Sam sighed, stood up from the chair and left her alone to decide.

* * *

Things went slowly and quickly all at once after that. There was little Sam could do except be a supportive body when the doctors and Stark and Banner took care of Steve. First they removed the metal disk that Hydra had put on his head. Taking it off did not make Steve’s vision return however.

Then they removed the metal parts of the collar, leaving the wires in. When that was done they sedated him and did both the surgery on his shoulder and the removal of the wires so he would not feel it. Bucky would not let Steve out of his sight, so neither did Sam. The two of them had a silent agreement that they would only rest if the other was there to protect Steve. But really, neither of them wanted to rest.

Steve’s body seemed to be working in double-time, because after the surgery his shoulder was markedly better within only a few hours. Steve had woken up and been given an IV with nutrients and was trying to force down more of the smoothies Stark’s robot was making for him.

He was quiet. He and Bucky sat alone quietly, never saying a word. Sam had no idea what he was thinking. Bucky said he had stopped talking just a little bit after he came out the sedated sleep. He murmured something to Bucky and then did not say anything else. As if he had forgotten how to speak. As if he had forgotten that speaking was something he did some times.

Sam felt like an intruder as he watched them. But at the same time, when he was alone in the room with them, they acted very different than when it was him, the two men and anyone else. They were fine showing him something that they didn’t let anyone else see. Sam wasn’t sure whether or not to be flattered or concerned.

He figured out what it was. They let him see them smile at each other. Steve’s was weak and tired, but he would smile at Bucky when he thought of something worth smiling about, but would not smile if there was someone else in the room. He thought he might have seen a ghost of a smile when Natasha was stepping through but it was small. And Bucky smiled back. That was almost more baffling. He was exhausted and strung out, but he would smile every time Steve would. Steve could not see it, but it was like he knew Bucky was smiling back and his smile would grow wider.

They weren’t even talking. Sometimes they were perfectly still, save for their hands, their fingers intertwining and twisting together. Their connection stopped being on the surface and had retreated to something primal. A wholeness that made them smile.

And they let Sam see it. Maybe they thought Sam needed something to smile about too.

Stark and Banner had set up the chair in the lab. Sam wasn’t sure if that was better or worse than if they had put it somewhere quieter. Steve had said he liked the lab, but it was too busy. He mentioned this to Stark who immediately started turning off some of the more ostentatious gizmos that were flashing and spinning and projecting numbers onto screens. It helped a little.

Sam had glanced at one of the open computers and saw that Tony had modified the chair. The thing on the computer looked terrifying, oppressive; he could understand why Steve would be scared of it, even without the pain. But now it was not so bad. He wondered if Tony had done that on purpose, on the off chance that Steve would be able to see the chair and might react to it. There were no more restraints, and it looked like Tony had taken apart the mechanical arm that moved to press some of the parts against the occupant’s face.

Sam still did not think it was a good idea though.

He hated that he was helping Bucky walk Steve out of the guest suite and to the lab. He hated that he and Bucky helped him sit down in the chair and he could feel Steve shaking under his skin. Something deep kicked in inside of Sam then. He thought he could pick Steve up and clutch him to his chest and just run, just protect him; all the while murmuring that he’ll be okay, and he won’t let anything happen to him.

That’s what he promised right? He told them both he wouldn’t let anything happen to either of them.

He had to step back so Tony and Bruce could come in and start setting things up.

Bucky knelt on the ground next to Steve in the chair and held onto Steve’s hand. Steve looked pale and sick, and there were wet tears slowly moving down the sides of his face, glinting in the bright light of the lab.

He flinched when Tony attached something to his forehead, and Bucky started murmuring to him softly. Sam couldn’t make out the words, and it looked like it was only barely helping Steve stay calm.

Natasha stepped up next to Sam and they watched in silence. He spared her one glance, grateful to see that at least she looked as nervous as he felt.

“That’s everything,” Tony said softly. “Are you ready, Steve?”

Steve took a shuddering breath and nodded. Tony typed something into the computer console. The machine under the chair started revving up, a low, almost pleasant hum that filled the lab.

Sam saw Steve grip Bucky’s hand tighter and squeeze his eyes shut.

It took everything in his power not to close his eyes too.

He could only hope they were doing the right thing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy POV switch, batman!
> 
> 1\. Sorry I didn't update this last week, and sorry it took me an entire extra week to get this done. It was not good last week, and I scrapped it to change it to Sam's POV, which I think was a good decision in the long run.
> 
> 2\. SO SO SO SORRY I didn't respond to any of your comments in the last few weeks either! I saw them all and they were all lovely and thank you so much! I don't know what happened, I just lost a lot of mental power.
> 
> 3\. Sorry, not sorry, for the cliffhanger chapter end (AGAIN). This is just getting silly now. I can guarantee that the last chapter will not be a cliffhanger (OR WILL IT?? I don't know actually, I need to write it).
> 
> I'm Betsy and I'm actually thousands of bees in a people suit! Oh gosh!  
> [my tumblr.](http://batraquomancy.tumblr.com) [reblogable post to share this story.](http://batraquomancy.tumblr.com/post/124114361678)


	34. Chapter 34

He was lying on something soft. He was warm. He was so comfortably warm. A blanket over his body, a soft shirt, soft pants. Something was aching on his left side, but it was held still and felt tightly wrapped.

And his neck felt cold. He reached up and ran his fingers over the skin, but he did not quite remember why he thought there should be something there. He was happy there wasn’t anymore, even if his neck felt cold. He pressed deeper into the softness under him, pulled the blanket up further.

He flinched when something touched his face, sighed into the hand running softly through his hair. That felt right. He curled deeper under the blanket, and felt warm when he heard someone chuckle above him, sounding familiar and new all at once.

He did not want to open his eyes, though. Sleep was pulling at him, but also a gnawing uncertainty. He did not know what he would see. But keeping his eyes shut made him feel something too. Something uncomfortable.

“Are you awake?” A voice asked.

He did not reply. The voice there suddenly meant this was real, and he was not sure he wanted this to be real. And he was scared to open his eyes. He did not know what he was going to see.

Or not see. That was something that he considered. He would open his eyes and it would be black and navy and terrible. He could not say where this thought came from, but it was there in his mind, stuck on like a leech, corroding his thoughts.

“Sleep,” said the voice “It’s alright. I got you.”

He relaxed back into the soft, warm floating place he had been before. The hand started moving through his hair and he realized absently that the hand must be connected to the voice. And the voice was a good voice and the hand on his head was good too.

Maybe it was worth the risk to open his eyes. The good hand and the good voice were there, after all.He blinked his eyes open. There was a man lying on the bed in front of him. He looked very tired.

“Hello,” he whispered to the man.

“Hey.” The man had a good smile. He wanted to touch it and, without thinking, reached out and lay a finger on the man’s bottom lip. “How’re you feeling?” The words, the breath ghosted over the skin of his finger and he never wanted to take it off the man’s lip.

“Warm.”

“You don’t like to be cold.”

“I don’t.” Even the idea of being cold was unsettling now. He almost wished the man had not said it, if only so he wouldn’t have to think about it. But it was nice to know. He did not like being cold. That was as clear a fact as ‘he needed to breathe in order to live.’ 

“Do you remember?” asked the man.

“Remember what?”

“Anything?”

He thought about it for a moment, feeling the man watching him carefully. “No,” he said at last. “I don’t. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. It’ll come back.”

“Okay.”

He looked at the man. They both fell silent, simply looking at each other. It wasn’t staring, it was just looking. The way his eyes moved over the planes of the man’s face felt so familiar, but distant, but right. _Like riding a bicycle_. The thought was in his head and it fit. Looking at the man was like riding a bicycle. Easier than riding a bicycle. He thought he could look at the man for a long time. He thought he could hear his voice for a long time and sigh into his hand as the man ran it through his hair. The pillows and sheets and clothes smelled like the man, and smelled comfortable and familiar. They smelled like him, he thought. Maybe. He wasn’t sure. But things were clean and he was so, so warm.

“You smell like cinnamon,” he said to the man.

The man frowned. “Is that bad?”

He shook his head. “I think it’s good. I like it.”

They grew quiet once more. He risked sliding a little closer to the man and was so relieved when the man took him in his arms. He pressed his face to the man’s chest and fell back asleep, dimly aware that the man was not supposed to have a metal arm, but not caring. It was the man’s arm, and the man smelled like cinnamon.

* * *

_He was running through a park with someone holding his hand. He was small. He was so, so young. He and the other boy were laughing and they really were just boys, maybe seven or eight. Bucky and Steve, running through the park. Through Central Park. They didn’t get there often, but they knew it so well by now. It was a perfect place to have an adventure._

_They stopped at a bench by the pond and watched a man put a small paper boat in the water._

_Steve was scared. The man didn’t have an arm. The man caught him staring from behind Bucky._

_“What’s the matter, kid?”_

_“D’you lose your arm in the war, mister?”_

_“Sure did.”_

_“Did it hurt?”_

_“Yes. But a lot of things hurt.”_

_“But it had to hurt a lot.”_

_“But it doesn’t hurt much anymore. That’s what’s important.”_

_“His pa died in the war,” Bucky said with the seriousness only a seven-year-old could muster._

_“That’s alright though. That means he’s not hurting at all anymore.”_

_“I suppose so,” said Steve._

_“Your mother still around?”_

_“Yes sir.”_

_“You take care of her?”_

_“Yes sir.”_

_“He’s really good to his ma,” Bucky stated earnestly. “Some of the boys at school can be peevish to their ma, but not Stevie. He’s good.”_

_“Good. I’m glad to hear that.”_

_They were quiet for a long while then. They watched the little paper boat float on the water. It was made of thing newspaper and was not going to last long. Steve knew it wasn’t going to last long as it went further and further towards the center of the pond. It grew dark as the water seeped up through the paper and slowly it disappeared, melting into the water and collapsing away._

_“You lost your boat,” said Bucky._

_“That is apparent,” said the man._

_“Maybe you shouldn’t use paper,” Steve suggested._

_“Sometimes you gotta work with what you got.”_

_“I guess.”_

_“It’s getting late. You kids may want to head back to wherever it is you’re going.”_

_“See you later.”_

_Steve and Bucky took off with a wave. Bucky’s mom and sisters were around somewhere and they were meandering back that way when they had bumped into the man. Steve spared one last look over to him._

_He could see the newspaper boat in the pond. When it had sunk he thought it would be gone. But it was still there, still under the edges of the water, distorted and soggy, but it was still there. Still floating just below the surface, not heavy enough to sink into oblivion. He could not take his eyes away from it until Bucky found his way back to him, pulled him by the hand and shook him from his thoughts._

* * *

He opened his eyes again. The man on the bed had rolled over onto his back and was snoring softly, breathing even. It made him happy to see the man sleeping. The man needed it. He knew that deep in his bones. He would make sure the man got enough sleep even if it killed him.

He blinked at the intensity of that thought. He did not know where it had come from, but it felt right, familiar.

He shifted onto his elbow to look down at the man who opened his eyes at the movement.

“Hey,” the man whispered. “Doing alright?”

“Yeah.”

The man lifted his hand and ran it through his hair. He leaned into the touch with a soft sigh.

“I’m glad you’re doing better, Steve.”

He blinked at the man, and rested his head on his chest. “What’s Steve?” he asked.

“You are.”

He considered it, nodding slowly. “Okay.” That made sense. _Steve_. _Steve Rogers._ He nodded once more.

“Do you know who I am?”

“No.” But of course he did. He knew the man, but he did not know the man.

“I’m Bucky.”

That made something inside him — inside Steve, because that was his name; that made sense — release. It like his whole body was sighing. That was right. It was Bucky.

“Bucky…” he whispered, testing it on his lips and it felt so, so right to say.

“Yeah. That’s me.”

He smiled at the man who smiled back at him. That smile was something else entirely. Their eyes never wavered and that was perfect.

He was so warm.

“What do you remember?”

Steve thought about it. “I don’t know. Images. It’s all there, but it doesn’t make sense.”

“Tell me.”

“A paper boat in a pond. It sank, but didn’t go away.”

“Does your head hurt?”

“No. Why?”

“No reason.” The man, Bucky, smiled, looking relieved. “Are you hungry?”

Steve thought again. “Yes.”

“Sam bought some more of the ice cream you liked.”

Steve nodded. He didn’t know Sam and he didn’t know which kind of ice cream he liked, but Bucky smelled like cinnamon. He took Steve by the hand and they got off the bed and walked around, the wooden floors a little cool, but not terribly cold under his feet. There was no one else around. It was just him and Bucky and some part of him thought _thank god for that,_ as if the idea of dealing with anyone would be too much to handle.

Steve sat on a couch while Bucky went to get the ice cream. He could hear him walking around softly, and that was enough. There was a pull deep within him to never take his eyes off of Bucky, but that did not feel quite right. He was happy to listen to Bucky move about the small apartment. That was enough. Bucky was here.

Bucky came back around, holding a pint of ice cream labeled Karamel Sutra, and handing him a spoon. He looked at Steve for a while, standing in front of him on the couch. “Here ya go, Stevie.”

He smiled, biting his lip a little. “I like that.”

“Like what?”

“I like when you call me ‘Stevie’.”

Bucky smiled. “I can call you that forever if you need me to.”

Steve smiled and nodded at him and Bucky sat down next to him on the couch, working on a different container of ice cream. He was right. This was Steve’s favorite. He’d never had it before, he thought mildly, but it was his favorite.

Bucky was his favorite, he assessed after a moment. He didn’t need anything else. He knew that much was certain as he turned to look at Bucky one more, their eyes meeting, both of them smiling.

* * *

_“Gory, gory what a helluvaway to die!” Bucky was singing along with the other Commandos as Steve herded them back to the camp from the little tavern. Steve knew Bucky was not as drunk as the others, but it had been a while since Bucky had been_ happy _. Steve was glad to let him have it._

_Bucky slung his arm around Steve’s waist and pulled him in close. Him and the others kept singing, though it was more like yelling into the quiet night, ruining the peace of the little French village. Dugan, Gabe, Falsworth and Morita made their way to their tents and Steve volunteered to do first watch. Bucky sat down next to him on the log._

_“Gotta sober up,” he lied easily to the men._

_When all was quiet save for the snoring from the tents, Steve spoke. “You’re not that drunk.”_

_“Sure I am, Stevie.”_

_Steve chuckled. “You used to be a lot handsier.”_

_“Oh really?”_

_“Yeah, really.”_

_“That so?”_

_“Yeah, that’s so.” Bucky grinned, bringing his face close to Steve’s and Steve could not help but grin back. Bucky’s hand was on Steve’s thigh. “Bucky, I’m keeping watch. That’s a very serious responsibility.”_

_“Hmmm. It is.” His face was down by Steve’s neck. Steve could feel his breath on his skin, warm in the cold night air. “You’re so good. Someone oughta let you know. Someone handsy.”_

_His hand slid further up Steve’s thigh, and his lips were so, so close to Steve’s neck._

_“No reward necessary.” Steve snorted. “Just doing my patriotic duty.”_

_“Ooh. Captain America. So stalwart…”_

_Steve started laughing out loud then. “Stalwart? That’s not a word.”_

_“Sure it is. It was in that book, remember?” Bucky said unhelpfully._

_Steve didn’t remember but it was easy to say, “Shit, you’re right, Buck.” Bucky was always right anyway. It was probably a word, but Steve was a little distracted by the lap full of Bucky he was dealing with, the hand between his legs._

_“Damn right I’m right… Stalwart Steve…”_

_“Hmmm… you make me sound like a super hero or something.” He was dutifully staring ahead into the fire as Bucky’s hand ghosted over the growing bulge in his crotch._

_“The Incredible Stalwart Steve. Captain America, the man with a plan.” Bucky was close to giggling. “What kind of things are you planning right now, Stevie?”_

_“Nothing that could be put on the film reels, that’s for sure.”_

_“Tell me.”_

_“Stalwart Steve is far too stalwart to kiss and tell.”_

_“So there’s kissing?”_

_“I hope so?” He finally looked at Bucky, a little uncertain. It had only been a few weeks since they had that night together._

_“Oh yes. Yes, there’s a lot of kissing. Kissing forever.”_

_Bucky pressed his lips to Steve’s. He was right. Steve could do this forever. Bucky’s lips were cold from the night air but grew warm quickly against Steve’s. Steve brought his hand up tentatively, lightly running over the skin on Bucky’s face. It was perfect, he wanted to touch it, to draw it, to feel it for the rest of this life._

_A twig broke in the forest._

_They both snapped their heads around to the source of the noise. He thought he could hear Bucky’s heart pounding into the night. There was a rustle, a bird or small animal moving through the brush. It was a false alarm. Bucky’s eyes were wide and alert. He might not have even been drunk at all._

_They fell quiet, and Steve took Bucky’s hand. They sat and watched the fire into the night._

* * *

The memories came back slowly. Upon discussion with the others he realized the memories with Bucky came back first, along with memories of his mother. The memories from before the war were both stronger and weaker, skewed the way childhood memories can be skewed; more emotional, less rational. The memories of the war itself were laced with things that made Steve’s heart race, though it took him time to realize why. There was fear in those memories, far greater than anything he had experienced as a child. Usually fear that had to with Bucky more than himself, but he thought telling Bucky that might embarrass him. The memories all felt different. Sam said that it sounded like he just had a few different movie genres to pick from. 

The memories from after he crashed the plane and was thawed felt like science fiction. 

How do you process memories of an alien invasion? Of waking up seventy years in the future? The idea of it left Steve reeling. Those memories were not real, they _could not_ be real.

The following days and weeks were hard, but Steve realized that they might have been much, much worse. He knew he had gone through much, much worse. But he didn’t _know_ what had happened yet. The memories that he had made after Hydra had put him in the chair the first time had not come back; they were floating at the edges of his knowledge, just out of reach. Bucky, Sam and Natasha had all offered to tell him what had happened, but he decided against it. The memories would come back when he was ready, and there was something within him that just was not ready. That did not stop the memories from leaving a residue in his day to day life.

He would wake screaming and not remember why. Sometimes little things would bring about large, visceral reactions that he had no warning for.

Tony was experimenting and blew the power out when Steve was alone in the apartment. The others had found him curled in a corner, rocking back and forth. Bucky was finally able to get close enough to hear him muttering, “I can’t see, I can’t see, I can’t see…”

Everyone was gathered in the communal kitchen cooking. Steve had not even realized he had pressed back against the wall, breathing heavy and panicked until Sam shook him out of it. He could not stop staring at the knife on the cutting board.

He did not like having things on his wrists, and he hated having anything too close to his neck. Sometimes he’d feel a phantom pain in his shoulder, and rub it absentmindedly until Bucky or Natasha would take him by the wrist and pull his hand away.

He could not keep eye contact with anyone except Bucky. That was the worst part. He didn’t know why and he was afraid to ask. It could only be something terrible, he concluded. Why else would his heart start racing and his breath get shallow and quick without his leave whenever he tried?

* * *

_“How you doin’ Buck?” Steve asked quietly._

_“Well as can be expected.”_

_As well as can be expected after being experimented on. Steve heard the rest of the sentence but did not say anything. Bucky didn’t need it. Bucky wanted to be alone, but Steve knew he didn’t need that either. He wouldn’t be up at the crack of dawn sitting on a log outside the camp if he needed to be alone, Bucky was always good at hiding._

_Steve sat down next to him. They were quiet, watching the mist move over the field past the tree line. Part of Steve wanted to step out into the field and lie there for hours as the sun passed over head. To walk around where there was no tree coverage and nothing but sky. He wouldn’t. That was asking to get shot, and despite public opinion and rumor Steve could neither deflect gunshots, nor was he particularly keen to try._

_It was so, so quiet. There was at most one or two birds waking up as the dawn light started slipping over the horizon, but they were far away. Steve and Bucky stared out at the mist._

_“Look,” Bucky whispered. He was staring to the side where the tree line curved around the field. Steve turned and saw some movement and reached for his gun instinctively before Bucky put a hand over his. He kept looking and saw what it was._

_Two wolves. Steve blinked. He had never actually seen a wolf before. He thought they looked a little thinner than they should be, and one of them had a swath of bald skin, burned off by something down its side. The injury looked old though, and the wolf was moving easily enough._

_“Looks like the krauts got to those guys too,” whispered Bucky next to him._

_“Looks like.” Steve spared a quick glance at Bucky. “But they seem okay now.”_

_“I guess.”_

_The wolves walked carefully across the field and were gone moments later._

_“I missed you,” said a voice, softly next to Steve._

_He turned and looked at Bucky who was looking ahead to where the wolves had disappeared. “I missed you too, Buck.”_

_They did not speak again until the others in the camp started waking, and they went back to work._

* * *

They had all been waiting for Steve to remember what had happened after the first wipe. The doctors and Bruce and Tony were worried it would hit him like a hurricane, taking him into a dark, terrible place.

But it hadn’t. He and Bucky were sitting around the communal dining table eating Indian takeout when small things started prickling in the corners of Steve’s mind. He finished as much of his food as he could stand to swallow and excused himself from the table while Bucky was in the kitchen bringing back more food. Steve found the elevator and made his way back to the guest suite that had unofficially become Steve and Bucky’s apartment.

They had hurt him. They had hurt Bucky. Pierce and Rumlow and Hydra. He walked to the large window — replaced after Hydra had broken in and taken him a second time — and stared out into the night sky. The glass was cold against his forehead.

“Steve?”

It was Bucky. He was standing a few feet away, cautious and pale in the reflection of the window.

“I’m fine, Buck.” 

It was the truth and it wasn’t the truth. He would keep blinking and remembering something that had happened. It was horrifying. He had been so helpless, tortured and violated; he closed his eyes and there was navy, and he reached up and could feel the shock collar on his neck burning electricity into his skin.

“You can tell me if something’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong. I’m remembering.”

“Remembering what?”

“Everything.”

“Does it hurt?”

Steve paused. “No.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah, it is.”

Bucky came up the window. He looked a little nervous, like he wanted Steve to move away from the glass. _Just like before_ , Steve remembered Bucky thought this was a dangerous spot. He knew what to do. He reached forward and pushed Bucky’s head out the window.

“Stars are nice tonight, huh?”

“Yeah.”

Steve turned and looked at Bucky. “Are you okay, Buck?” Bucky nodded and took Steve by the hand. Steve let him walk him away from the window and over to the living room. They sat on the couch quietly. So much had happened to them, Steve realized. And so much had happened to Bucky. A wave of guilt passed over him. Bucky had been through so much and all this time everyone had been coddling Steve, focusing on Steve.

“You sure?” he asked.

“Yeah, Stevie.” Steve felt his face go warm at the word _Stevie_. He thought he should be used to it by now, but it still left him floating. “I’m okay. And you’re okay?”

“Yeah. I’m okay. I might— I might have some nightmares tonight. But I’m okay.”

“Do— do you remember what we had talked about a little bit? In the park?”

_“You lost your boat._ ”

“A little. Everything’s coming back in bits and pieces.”

“It’ll keep.”

“What? Tell me?”

Bucky was not looking at Steve. He focused at the fireplace ahead of them on the couch and all Steve wanted to do was look into his eyes again, to see that smile again. 

“We were in love,” Bucky finally said softly.

_Oh._ Steve thought about it for a long while, quiet. “Aren’t we still?” he finally asked.

The relief in Bucky was not so much physical, but spiritual. Steve swore he could see his muscles relax under his skin, see light in his eyes as he turned and smiled at Steve. “Yeah. I think we are.”

Steve leaned in and pressed their lips together. He had wanted to do that for a long, long time, he thought absently. It had been such a long, long time. He was still shaky and scared and the memories were terrible as they came back, but they were also good. There was also hope.

He had something back that he had lost. Nothing else mattered.

Bucky kissed him back. It was perfect. Steve felt like he could finally breathe, and it felt like he finally fit back into his skin.

When they broke apart Steve said the only thing he could think of. “I missed you, Bucky.”

“I missed you too, Steve.”

It smelled like Mrs. Barnes’s cinnamon cookies and the docks in Brooklyn and caramel ice cream and home. Things were still frightening, they were both still hurt, but they were okay. They would be okay. They were home.

 

**The End**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading. :)
> 
> [my tumblr.](http://batraquomancy.tumblr.com) [reblogable post to share this story.](http://batraquomancy.tumblr.com/post/124114361678)


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